


The Last Trolley Stop

by mia6363



Series: Through the Whimsical Camera Lens [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Actors, Casual Sex, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Frottage, M/M, Mentions of past abuse, Mutual Pining, Oral Sex, Slow Burn, past homophobia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-17
Updated: 2018-09-29
Packaged: 2018-12-03 09:09:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 63,112
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11529120
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mia6363/pseuds/mia6363
Summary: The Last Trolley Stop was a kids show that ran for three seasons. Within the show it raised a group of cast and crew that went on to make great things. This is the story of how The Last Trolley Stop began, and how its influence was heard for years after its ending.





	1. Pre-Production

Balmy Southern-California winds did nothing to wash away the exhaustion that pulled at Kira’s skin like weighted hooks. Kira pulled her headset down so it looped around her neck. The set broke apart and the actors, PAs, and crew alike all breathed out a sign of momentary reprieve. She grabbed a can of Sprite from a cooler filled with melted, luke-warm water. She hated soda but she hoped that the sugar would keep her going.

It was 10:30 PM and it was their second “lunch” break. It was a thirty minute break which really meant twenty minutes. Kira swallowed her Sprite with a grimace as she strayed from the herd of other shambling PAs and broke off to wander the alleys in the CBS lot. 

Kira Yukimura was a PA on a sitcom that had great ratings but was universally loathed by anyone with a shred of taste. The last four nights she’d slept in her car because they’d worked past the scheduled end time and since everyone was giving their all, Kira had to give more. She turned her phone on and she had three messages and one voicemail from her parents wishing her a happy birthday. 

She’d completely forgotten. 

The stairwell that led to the ADR sound booths was her favorite, tucked away space. This time of night the entire lot was abandoned but the ADR building was hidden in a narrow alleyway that barely anyone went down. 

Kira had fifteen minutes to listen to her mom and dad sing happy birthday and do their best not to sound disappointed with having to leave another voicemail. 

Only-children got a lot of shit, Kira noticed. She had a professor who hated them so much that he’d ranted about the for fifteen minutes ( _“Selfish, self-centered, just no grasp on reality,”_ ) and when he asked her if she had siblings, she’d lied and said she did. To this day he still thought she had two older sisters. Kira distanced herself from the negative only-child traits but thought it was a little unfair. 

All her parents attention were on her. At all times. Every hope, every disappointment, it all came down to _her_. She wondered if it hurt her parents the same way, how they couldn’t dilute their terrified disbelief when she moved to Los Angeles, if that mixture of _pride-fear-anger_ was just as suffocating as it was for Kira. 

Strained tears rolled down her cheeks and she wished she smoked. It seemed fitting, to smoke after a week like hers, to smoke after joining the herd of PAs who had the same haunted look on their faces, like they had finally become a part of a studio machine that they were no longer sure they wanted to join. Kira had _wanted_ this, hadn’t she? 

What scared her the most were the ADs and the Line Producers. They’d been PAs once, just like her, and while they moved with efficiency, they seemed empty. She was sure they made good money… but Kira knew she’d look the same if she was tied to a show like this sitcom. 

She sniffed and wiped her sweaty cheek with the back of her hand. She had five more minutes. 

The spicy smell of smoke made Kira’s maudlin introspection come to a dizzying halt. _Oh my God_ , she panicked, _am I having a stroke?_

“Oh dear. Somebody’s had a bad day.” 

Maybe the CBS lot wasn’t as abandoned as she thought, though it still didn’t make sense that someone was doing ADR so late at night. The door closed and whoever it was leaned against it. They kept a respectable distance from Kira as her legs dangled off the side of the stairwell. 

“Could be worse.” Later she’d wonder if it was the syrupy sugar or the late hour that made her words turn into a biting drawl. Her then-a-stranger-now-a-friend insisted that she was just being honest. “I could be talking myself hoarse in a sound booth.” 

The man behind her laughed, the kind of laugh that wasn’t handsome because it was unexpected. When he spoke he sounded familiar like an old commercial. 

“True. But at least I’m not crying in a stairwell.” Kira stiffened. The man seemed to deflate. “Are you okay?” 

He said it like he wasn’t sure if he meant it or not. 

“Yeah.” She wiped up the last of her tears. “It’s just been a long day. I work on a shit sitcom. I’m twenty-three, no wait, twenty-four and I don’t want to… end up stuck in a show like this.” 

She was too afraid to ask if her fellow herd-PAs felt the same. She was sure a few did, they must, right? She heard the man shift his weight and he sighed another smokey exhale. 

“What show? It can’t possibly be that bad.” She said the title and he cackled. A real howling _cackle_. Kira found herself laughing with him, giggling madly until he spoke again. “That’s a pity, darling. But if you’re determined, and you seem quite determined, than you won’t be there for long. Think of it as practice. Terrible jobs always provide the best stories, some of my favorite stories are from truly terrible films.” 

Kira stood, ignoring the dull ache that came with sitting on concrete. She should get moving, she should be back at the set and ready to go for another four hours. Instead, she lingered in this weird bubble with the smoking stranger. She swayed and gripped the railing to keep herself from leaving. 

“Sometimes I just get so afraid.” 

She said it quietly. Afraid of failure, afraid of proving her parents right, afraid of… waking up old and sedentary. The man behind her hissed and a stream of smoke blew past her ear. 

“What, are you just going to give up? Go home with your tail between your legs with a shrug and an ‘oh well’?” 

Existential angst was chased away by a roiling, indignant rage that was as frightening as it was liberating. 

“No.” Kira’s knuckles were white against the railing. “ _Fuck no_.” 

Kira Yukimura was twenty-four, the heel of her left shoe had a hole on the bottom, and her socks didn’t match. She was exhausted, was getting a sugar-headache, and needed a shower. She turned, a wry smile on her face, and was going to say goodbye to her new acquaintance. Whatever witty words of friendly departure she had dried up on her tongue when she saw that she’d been trading barbs with _Peter Hale_. 

“Good girl.” Academy Award Nominated Actor Peter Hale grinned, crooked and laced with bittersweet mirth. She knew that her shock must be written plain as day across her face and thankfully, Peter Hale didn’t take offense. “I have a feeling you’ll be just fine, darling.” 

Kira’s cheeks bloomed with heat. 

“Thank you.” 

She had to get going and just as she was going to take her first step back towards that awful sitcom. Peter idly took out his phone. 

“I hope you follow my advice. Maybe I’m being nostalgic, but I’d like to keep in touch, to make sure you’re not still at that hellish show in four years.” Peter Hale’s confident demeanor faltered, for a small sliver in time, and Kira quickly fumbled for her phone. The way his lips had tugged downward, just for a moment, sent her spiraling back to being the new kid on the playground and the ugly taste of desperation and loneliness on her tongue. “If you don’t mind, of course.” 

“Sure.” Kira took his phone and entered her information with fingers that, miraculously, did not shake. “I don’t mind. Text me, then I’ll have your number.” 

Peter took back his phone. He glanced at his screen and his smile softened. 

“Kira Yukimura,” and Kira’s stomach lurched because Peter Hale _said her name_. “It was truly lovely to meet you.” 

He held his hand out. She shook it, and he had a firm grip. 

“Kira!” Kira twisted, her hand still in Peter’s grasp as a PA staggered to a stop from a fast jog. Kira vaguely recognized his tall, long strides and broad shoulders. _Danny_ , her brain supplied. Danny glanced in her direction where she lingered in the shadowy stairwell. “Kira, we’re about to start.” 

“Okay.” Her fingers slid from Peter’s. She smiled at him. “Thanks, Mr. Hale.” 

“Please, call me Peter.” Kira managed not to trip as she jogged down the stairs. Her ears flushed red as he called after her. “I’ll be in touch!” 

She fell into a fast jog with Danny. They helped hook each other up with walkies and as they got marks laid down he turned to her. 

“Was that Peter fucking Hale?” 

Kira nodded. 

“Sure was.” 

Danny shook his head, his usually impassive face aglow with secretive amusement. As they took a breath, ready to produce more colorful garbage, Danny bumped her hip with his. He held out a plastic shell container with a cupcake in it. He bumped it against her hands until she took it. 

“Happy Birthday.” 

Kira almost dropped the cupcake in surprise. Her smile was wide, exhausted, and bright. That was how her and Danny met, smiling and miserable on set. 

Years later Kira and Danny were sweating and out of breath at Jim Henson studios. Her throat was hoarse, her cheeks were flushed, and the silence that grew between them the panel of executives was like an ocean’s roar. A woman with comically large horn-rimmed glasses stared them down without blinking. 

“Thank you.” Her voice was a judge’s gavel and Kira refused to flinch. “We will be in touch.” 

Ice cream made everything better. They walked down to Neveux on Melrose and Danny squeezed her shoulder. 

“We did great. We gave them everything we had.” Kira nodded, still a bit out of breath from the pitch session. Danny had a scoop of Cinnamon Date Tahini while Kira let Pineapple Sage melt over her tongue. Her heart had finally gotten back to a decent pace when Danny nudged her foot with his. “Whatever happens, Kira, I’m happy with how we did today.” 

He had to run to a commercial shoot and Kira had to scout for locations in the desert. The trick was to never stop, Kira felt like a juggler keeping a thousand art pieces in the air. Her mom still said that a job in entertainment wasn’t a guaranteed career. Kira was starting to think that she loved the uncertainty as she drove with the sun at her back. Wind stung her skin while her and the other scouts leaned out of the car windows to take pictures before moving onto the next location. 

She got into her apartment after midnight when she got a text from Danny that simply said: _WE GOT IT._

Kira dropped her keys to the floor. 

They got it. _They got it_. She kicked her door shut and ran to her room to start planning. She sent Peter a text asking if he had time to talk. Within seconds he called her. Kira pressed her phone to her ear and Peter’s audible smirk made her grin. 

_“Talk to me, darling.”_

She talked. She paced her room, her voice getting louder and she was going to have to apologize to her neighbors in the morning but this was too important to sacrifice enthusiasm for politeness. She painted Peter the same picture she painted for the Jim Henson Company executives, she spun flowers and glittering imagery with Danny’s words and when she was lightheaded at the end. Her chest heaved and her teeth ached. 

“Peter,” Kira’s lips were numb and her cheeks were flushed, “I’m going to make you a job offer.” 

He had every right to delete her number. He had every right to forget about the crying PA on the stoop of the CBS sound studio. But he never did. And so Kira grinned across the line and offered Peter a role in The Last Trolley Stop. Danny would be too nervous to ask and he would have expected indignant rejection. 

_“Well this will certainly be an experience.”_ Peter laughed as Kira pumped her fist. _“When do we start?”_

::::

There was no greater high than making a person laugh. The rush that came with watching a person’s eyes widen as the breath caught in their chest, Finstock _lived_ for that moment.

Street lamps cast a fuzzy amber light down on the dark highway. Finstock’s heaters were shit but better than nothing so he had them on full blast. The drive to Oklahoma for Thanksgiving was always painful and icy. Josh sat in the front seat, his thick glasses fogged as he pressed his fingers against the sputtering heaters. 

“Your car sucks, Finstock.” 

He liked Josh. He was an absurdist comedian that seemed to be born to play the role he played. His mouth was too big for his face and his lips were just a tad too thin. When he doused himself in water before a show he’d get an amphibious look. Josh’s standup wasn’t about the words he said into the microphone. This craft was the character saying the words, how he’d fumble his way onto stage and how he’d make his voice uneven and crackled. 

Josh was, in Finstock’s impeccable opinion, a genius. 

“I know.” Finstock grimaced, his knuckles aching from the cold. “At least you don’t have to spend another two hours in this piece of shit.” 

Josh grinned, crooked and toothy. He was so _young_ , sometimes Finstock forgot just how young. 

“You’re building character, old man.” 

The car swerved a bit when Finstock jabbed his fingers into Josh’s squishy side. Josh shrieked and soon they were laughing, laughing so hard that Finstock had to quickly defrost the window from their breath. They arrived in Tulsa and Finstock knew the turns to get Josh to his dad’s house. 

“Bobby!” Josh’s father was the kind of man that Norman Rockwell would have painted. He had rosy cheeks, glasses that were even thicker than his son’s, and was named Llewellyn. _Llewellyn_ , the name made Finstock crack a smile every time. “Come in, Darlene just set out dinner. We’re having perogies.” 

Finstock’s stomach gurgled and he was tempted, so tempted to just stay with Josh’s family. They’d be happy to have him, and God, he would be happy to give his time to them. Josh waited, though he knew Finstock’s answer already. 

“I can’t.” Finstock kept his smile steady. “I got to beat the snow.” 

Llewellyn’s eyes narrowed behind his spectacles and he opened his arms. 

“Give me a hug before you go, Bobby.” 

He did, and Josh and Darlene joined. It was tight, warm, and just a tad too many elbows but Finstock wouldn’t trade anything in the world for that embrace. They chased the cold away, they chased the ominous promise of _family_ that Finstock drove to, and they chased away the tightness in his chest that suffocated him any time he left Los Angeles. He pulled away before he begged them to let him stay. 

Finstock also lived in Oklahoma, so when the holidays rolled around he’d always offer a ride to Josh. It had become their tradition, but driving the last two-hour stretch to the boons, where streetlights disappeared in endless stretches of dark farmland. He rolled into his brother Oswald driveway around midnight, his hands and ass numb. He shut off his shit-mobile and grabbed his two ratty backpacks out of the trunk. 

The keys slide easily into the door and he kicks off his shoes in the direction of the shoe rack, too tired to properly put them away. He knew Ozzie would give him shit about it in the morning, but Finstock just moved in the dark through the house he’s known his whole life and fell onto the green couch with the slight dip in the center. He was asleep before he could toe off his socks. 

“Uncle Bobby, Uncle Bobby!” 

It felt like he’d been asleep for about five minutes when his tiny niece jumped on his back. He rolled over, bright morning light assaulting his eyes. He expertly caught his niece in his right arm and shifted her in his grasp, putting most of her weight on his hip. He blinked blearily as soft lips kissed his cheek. 

“Eugh!” Shelbie shrieked, her curly tangerine hair getting in Finstock’s eyes as she rubbed at her mouth. “You need to shave, Uncle Bobby.” 

Finally his eyes came into focus and he managed a smile at his niece. Stuart, his nephew who was just a tad older than Shelbie, peeked in from the doorway. Finstock winked at him. 

“Everyone is a damn critic.” 

The soft cuss made Stuart smile and Finstock opened his arms. Stuart came running and sure, Bobby’s toes were still frozen and his eyes were crusty around the edges, but he couldn’t really be angry when his niece and nephew were doing their best to squeeze the bejesus out of him. He lost his balance and rolled backwards, his back hitting the couch. He laughed just as Ozzie and Patricia came in. Patricia, bless her heart, attempted to smile.

Ozzie inherited his frown from their father. 

“Come on, kids.” Ozzie even said the words kid like their dad used to, exasperation but mostly just exhausted annoyance. “Don’t bother your uncle.” 

_Don’t bother your mother. Don’t bother me. Go bother your brother._

Finstock wondered if Josh, Llewellyn, and Darlene would be all right if he decided to spend Thanksgiving with them if he had his niece and nephew in tow. 

“Ozzie,” and Finstock watched his brother’s nose scrunch up at the nickname, “they’re fine. Better than a cup of coffee.” 

“I’ve made coffee.” Patricia chirped, wringing her hands nervously. “If you wanted some.” 

“Sure.” Finstock ruffled Stu’s hair and gently shifted Shelby in his arm. “Sounds great, Patty.” 

Finstock used his nieces and nephews as a shield. Oswald and Patricia were terrified of talking to him and he just wanted to play with the kids. Everybody won. But they all had to eat together, usually in front of the television. The first night Ozzie and Patty almost choked on their food because they were laughing so hard at _The Big Bang Theory._ Finstock shared his hell with Josh via text.

Josh’s answer was a praying emoji. 

Finstock could be watching _Twin Peaks_ with Josh and his parents. Instead he had Stu and Shelbie tucked into his side as they nervously laughed with their parents. Later he’d whisper to them, “Don’t worry, those weren’t actually jokes, okay? Take it from me, I’m a professional.” He chewed around another flavorless piece of asparagus when his cell phone buzzed. When he saw Lydia’s name he stood abruptly. 

“I gotta take this.” He stumbled outside, his socks crunching on frost. His breath came out in short puffs as he pressed his shitty phone to his ear. “Lydia, what’s up?” 

_“Finstock.”_ Lydia Martin was the kind of person Finstock wished he was. She had her shit together, she left her hometown, and hadn’t looked back since. He jammed his free hand under his arm. _“How’s Oklahoma treating you?”_

“Terribly. I want to go home.” 

He loved that she never needed clarification of what he meant by home. 

_“Good. Los Angeles misses you.”_ Finstock snorted. Los Angeles missed _no one_. He heard Lydia huff, like even she knew that had been a bit too full-of-shit for her liking. He heard her chair squeak as she leaned forward, no doubt grinning like a wolf over a kill. _“I’ve got a potential job for you. Easy video submission, all you need is an iPhone.”_

Finstock winced. 

“My camera’s busted. Cracked screen. And wait, submission… Lydia, I’m not an actor.”

 _“So borrow your nephew’s iPad or something. And the casting call was specifically asking for comedians. They don’t want someone pretty who_ thinks _they can land a joke. They want someone who’s funny.”_ Finstock’s heart doesn’t squeeze a little, it _doesn’t_ , he’s an adult who can totally take compliments. His chest suddenly ached, he wanted to go back home so badly. He struggled to make rent, he sometimes had to sleep in his car, and some months he’d have to crash on a friend’s couch… but he missed it all the same. _“I just emailed you what was sent to me. The script attached is a guideline, you don’t have to follow it word-for-word, but the character is sketched out for you there. It’s for a kid’s show.”_

“A kid’s show?” Finstock’s voice jumped an embarrassing amount of octaves. “Lydia, I don’t think—”

 _“You’re not supposed to think about it. Let your agent do that for you. And I’m telling you, just look. Just make a quick submission, send it to me, and I’ll pass it along.”_ She paused and a gust of wind sent a flurry Finstock’s way. Snowflakes clung to his eyelashes and he rubbed his hands together. _“Hurry home. We’ll get coffee.”_

Finstock read the script over the next morning. Oswald and Patricia eyed him but it’s hard to scold the oldest person in the room for using their phone at the table. He washed his dish and shook Stu’s boney shoulder and nudged Shelbie. 

“Come on, kids, want to go out and play?” 

He turned his back on the relieved looks on Oswald and Patricia’s faces. Finstock knew that calling him the black sheep of the family was generous. Having a stand-up comedian who was just shy of being ten years sober wasn’t exactly the contender of being brother-of-the-year… but he could keep the kids distracted. He leaned down and whispered to Stu. 

“Go and get your iPad, I need your help with something.” 

Oswald Finstock inherited their father’s property. A long time ago it was farm but now it was just sweeping expanses of land. The flurries hadn’t stuck so the grass was still green. Shelbie and Stu were all bundled up in proper winter coats and scarves while Finstock had a hoodie that was more hole-than-cloth. 

“Alright, guys, you’re going to help your old Uncle Bobby with an audition tape. Stu, you’re going to be the cameraman. Shelbie, you’re going to be my leading lady.” 

Shelbie squealed. 

“I’m a _lady_ , Stu!” 

She stuck her tongue out at her older brother, who returned the gesture vehemently. Finstock glanced over the lines on his phone and told himself it wasn’t _embarrassing_ , it was a _kid’s show_. He took a deep breath and crouched next to Stu. 

“All right, buddy. You can record video on this, right?” 

Stu rolled his eyes. 

“No duh, Uncle Bobby.” 

Finstock flicked Stu’s ear. 

“Don’t roll your eyes or they’ll fall outta your head.” Stu and Shelbie giggled and Finstock figured he had nothing to lose. He watched Stu hit the RECORD. He kissed the top of Stu’s head and lumbered over to Shelbie. She beamed up at him and Finstock thought, _Here goes nothing_. “Okay,” he sucked in a dramatic breath and winked. “Action!” 

::::

Alabama nights were endless. The last night Stiles Stilinski ever spent in his childhood home felt like twenty years. He packed up his bags methodically, triple-checking his lists to make sure he had everything he needed. He’d transferred his bank account to a national branch, one of those _big city banks_ that made his dad’s friends sneer. He had all his chargers, all his devices, and the note on his bed was detailed and reassuring. _This isn’t your fault, dad, I promise._

All Stiles has to do was walk out the front door, get in his Jeep, and start driving West. Easy as pie. 

Stiles slung the heaviest bag over his back and gripped his duffle tightly in his left hand. 

He was nineteen and he was tired of being _that boy_. The boy that made parents flash a nauseating mixture of a smirk and scowl. Stiles was _that boy_ who was in all the musicals in high school, who liked those _weird_ sports like lacrosse and not football. One memorable time had been at graduation when he’d overheard a woman sigh, “It’s such a shame, the Sheriff has _that_ kind of son.” 

The lights were off but that wasn’t a problem. Stiles could walk his house with his eyes closed. He stayed still for thirty seconds to make sure that his dad wasn’t stirring in his room just across the hall. He had his shoes in his bag, his socked toes flexing against the wooden stairs. He stepped over the fourth step, then the second from the bottom to avoid the deafening creaks they let out. He let out a long breath then waited another thirty seconds. No movements, no sounds, not a single creak. He turned back to look up at the stairs he’d run up and down his entire life. 

So much had happened on those stairs. He’d bruised his knees by falling down them when he was in a rush, he’d sit on the third step to tie his shoes before school, and his mom would help him zip up his jacket when he kept forgetting in the winter. It’s also where she’d sit him down when he’d come home crying because of bullies who just didn’t like him. _“You’ve just ignore them, Stiles.”_ She’d hold him in her lap back when he was small. _“Their minds just aren’t big enough for the better things in this world, honey.”_

She died back when bullies had gone after Stiles for just being skinny and liking to read. Some nights he was glad that she’d gone before the bruises and bloody noses were given for being _that boy_. 

He thought that after high school they’d stop coming after him. Surely high school would be the last of being jumped by his Jeep, of having to run to his car in the grocery store parking lot while dodging bottles flung at him by red-faced assholes. But it didn’t stop. Even dad’s own officers would laugh when it happened. There goes _that boy_. Always seems to be running from trouble. 

_I can’t stay here, dad. I’ll die if I do._

Stiles twisted the doorknob just as the kitchen lights flew on to reveal his father’s imposing silhouette. He was out of uniform but it never mattered. His father had been born with the air of old fashioned salt-of-the-earth authority. His father blended in with the rest of Alabama just fine. Stiles just couldn’t, no matter how hard he tried. He could see his father’s wrinkles deepen when he’d ask, “Well, Stiles, did you _try_ to get along with them?” 

He didn’t ask Stiles if he tried that night. 

The lights went on and Stiles jerked back violently, his eyes wide like a deer just before it turns into a smear across the highway. His dad wasn’t a moron, he’d see the bags, he’d know why Stiles was leaving, he’d be unable to ignore the meaning of _that boy_. Stiles couldn’t breathe because he was so close, he was so fucking _close_ —

His dad exhaled and Stiles couldn’t see his face his eyes were blurred with tears. His dad took a step toward him and Stiles took a step back, his right arm jerking up to shield himself. 

“Jesus, Stiles, don’t look at me like that.” His father’s voice thickened and broke and Stiles’s lungs couldn’t suck in enough air. He dropped his arm just in time for his father to pull him into a tight hug. “Christ, I’d never hurt ya.” He said it like it was a universal absolute, like every father couldn’t possibly hurt their son. _You would,_ Stiles thought viciously, _you would if you knew why they call me that boy._ Stiles shuddered and he couldn’t feel his fingers and toes. His dad tightened his grip. “Stiles. Breathe with me. In,” his father inhaled slowly, “and out.” 

Stiles slowly got the feeling in his limbs back and everything tasted a little less ashen on his tongue. The panic subsided and Stiles extracted himself. He could throw down his bags and he knew his dad would never mention it again. He could pretend it never happened, that it was just another panic attack that got out of hand. Stiles took a grounding breath. 

“I can’t stay here, dad.” 

The Sheriff of Chilton County squared his shoulders. 

“Well… all right, then.” 

Stiles technically never came out to his dad but he knew his dad. He wasn’t dumb. He might not have hit Stiles, he might not have cast him from the house with a busted lip, but he knew that his peers would have. Stiles threw his life into the backseat of his Jeep and drove off, kicking up a cloud of dust behind him. 

His dad stayed out, porch light on with the summer moths dancing in its glow, until Stiles couldn’t see him anymore. 

Four and a half years after his departure had Stiles sitting in a overly air conditioned hallway at Jim Henson studios. His foot bounced and with every fall of his heel the squelch of rubber against tile echoed in the hall. He had an hour left on his parking meter and half a hoagie waiting in a cooler in his car. One by one, the other six call-backs went in, and when they left Stiles felt a growing sense of unease and anticipation grow in his chest. 

The door opened on the far end of the hall and the last call-back, some artificially polished _dude_ left a little pale around the edges. Stiles stared after him, not bothering to hide his curiosity. The guy looked like he’d seen a ghost.

“Stiles Stil…” 

“Stilinski.” Stiles stood with a spring in his step. Even if he bombed this audition for an under-wraps kids project, Stiles would at least know what sent the last five guys home with a shell-shocked expression on their face. The woman at the door smiled when he shrugged. “It’s a mouthful. Even I have a hard time choking it down sometimes.” 

The woman, he was guessing it was the Kira Yukimura he’d gotten the call-back email from, giggled into her fist. 

“Right this way, Stilinski.” She held the door open and Stiles grabbed his backpack. He slipped past and he saw a soundstage and two men sitting in folding chairs. One he didn’t recognize, but the other… yeah Stiles knew why the rest of the call-backs left in a haze. Peter fucking Hale glanced up, reading glasses sliding down his nose as he held a script in his lap. He looked like a painting. _Hale, Descending a Staircase_. “We’d like you to read opposite the Trolley Man.” 

Stiles had a million questions. He swallowed all of them when the other man, a taller fellow with dark skin and kind eyes held out a script to him. 

“We’d like you to read this as you see it, and then the next few can be improvised as long as the spirit is the same.” Stiles thumbed through the pages, having to lick his fingers a few times. “Are you comfortable with that?” 

“Hm?” Stiles had to do a double-take at the man. No one particularly cared about _comfort_ , especially at auditions. “Sure. Of course.” He straightened and thanked his photographic memory as he met Peter Hale’s disinterested stare. “Ready to get to work, Mr. Trolley Man?”

Stiles was between apartments, living out of his Jeep but using a gym membership to fill the hygiene gaps. He called his dad on Saturdays and he had never been more comfortable in his own skin. Peter Hale, in relation to these things, was nothing to get upset over. In fact, Stiles felt the opposite. He was going to be acting opposite of _Peter Hale_ , even if it was just for a few minutes. He smiled and winked at Peter as he offered him a hand out of his chair. 

Peter’s eyes widened and his gaze was decidedly more interested. He grinned, not entirely kind, and _squeezed_ Stiles’s hand. 

::::

Peter’s received his first Academy Award nomination when he was twenty-nine years old and he lost to Tommy Lee Jones. It was an honor, truly, and while Peter was disappointed he knew that even if he won he wouldn’t have been celebrated by the rest of the Hale family. Hales were pedigree of the highest caliber. Hales were doctors, lawyers, but _never_ artists. 

Until Peter. 

When people spoke of Peter they called him an _actors’_ -actor. His name was well known within the industry but worldwide people wouldn’t look twice. Within the industry people were hungry to know what playwrights he was reading, where did he get the physical ticks for a supporting lead in that indie drama that dropped last spring, and how did he know just what slight changes in his distribution of weight and breathing that could transform his entire body? 

He didn’t like returning home. 

It was a Thanksgiving, just like any other, when Peter sat outside on the porch alone. He lit a cigarette but didn’t put it in his mouth, instead he let it slowly burn on the ashtray. The New York air was crisp and the night would bring flurries and frost. He had a flight out the following evening back to Los Angeles and he couldn’t wait. He licked his thumb and turned the page of the latest play that his agent had sent him. Behind him, the screen door slid open hesitantly before tiny feet stepped out. 

Peter didn’t bother turning around. His youngest niece Cora climbed into his lap. 

Cora was his favorite. She knew this, Peter knew this, everyone knew it. He was sure Talia thought it was a curse, but Cora treated it like a privilege. She leaned back against Peter’s chest and matched his breathing. He could see her eyes following the words on the page and Peter’s heart constricted in his chest. He adjusted his weight and kicked his legs up to make himself comfortable. 

They read on in silence together while the rest of the Hale family laughed over forced jokes and plain finger-foods. The wind blew and Cora snugged back against him and Peter effortlessly slid his jacket out from behind him so he could drape it over her. 

“Uncle Peter?” 

“Yes, my dear?” 

The food would be ready soon and ten-year-old Cora knew that her time with Peter would come to an end. Her eyes still continued to sweep over the pages even in the fading light. 

“Can you keep a secret?” 

“For you?” Peter kissed the top of her head. “Always.” 

Cora turned and Peter closed the play. She moved quickly so she could whisper in his ear, her tiny hands gripping his shoulder tight. 

“I like dancing.” Her voice was wrought with agony, the pain of unending love. “Uncle Peter, it’s all… it’s what I was meant to do.” She pulled back and her eyes were shining. “What do I do?” 

Peter knew he could get into Talia’s temporary good graces if he talked her out of it, if he warned her against the pursuit of the arts, if he convinced her that following such a love was selfish. He could easily steer his niece down the the centuries-trodden path of her Hale ancestors. Instead he lowered his voice. 

“You ask your mother for dance lessons and you _never_ show her how much you love it. You keep chasing it and remember,” Peter squeezed her hands, “they can _never_ take it away from you.” 

It had been some time since that evening on the porch.

Peter rubbed his temples in the CBS sound booth. The inside of his mouth was unpleasantly sticky with hunger. He had four plays in his bag and he was going to be flying to New York at the end of the week. He cleared his throat and went back to work. Big budget films were great for a quick paycheck, but sometimes they were so paranoid about getting lines. Hence, why Peter just had the engineers show him the basics so he could be in the booths without having to keep anyone late. 

He was alone, which was nothing new. Actors were said to be creatures of community but that couldn’t be less of the case with Peter. He could hear his sister sneer at Peter doing work beneath him and his fists clenched. _What kind of stability will you find in a career like that, Peter? What kind of friends will you make?_ Peter wondered if Talia would care that Peter didn’t have many friends. He cared too much about the craft. 

_Or am I truly too much of a conceited asshole?_

Peter shook himself and cleared his throat. 

An hour later Peter was finished and his hunger had deepened. He thought his night would consist of take-out and falling asleep while reading the latest McDonagh play. Instead, a young woman was sniffling in the CBS stairwell. Peter didn’t shove past like he normally would have. Later, he couldn’t say what made him pause, what made him engage… only that it felt like a myriad of tiny pieces were sliding together and for once, Peter was in the exact right place at the exact right time. 

He was so glad he stayed, that he’d spoke with Kira Yukimura. She was wonderful and quickly became Peter’s closest friend. 

When he arrived for the first day of shooting The Last Trolley Stop, Kira’s smile was a warm welcome. She hugged him and Peter had nowhere else he’d rather be. 

::::

Danny had a hard time believing that Peter Hale and Stiles Stilinski had never met. Even Kira had to ask twice if they were _sure_ they’d never worked together. They moved around each other effortlessly, their push and pull so hypnotic that Danny got chills. They signed Stiles on and all they had left was the comedic antagonist.

He sat with Kira in his apartment as she pulled up submission after submission. 

They only had three in the _Okay_ category. Danny shoved down the bubbling nervousness he felt because he’d hate to ruin the chemistry between Stiles and Peter with a comedic dud. Most of the submissions stuck strictly to the script and they all started to sound the same and those that were memorable were striking for all the wrong reasons. If Danny had to sit through another badly “improvised” Jim Carrey impression he was going to scream. 

“Well,” Kira smiled tightly, her head resting on her fist, “maybe we’ve saved the best for last?” 

“Maybe.” Danny rubbed his temples, then took a deep breath and straightened his back. “All right. Let’s finish this.” 

Kira opened the video submission and let it play on her laptop. 

The video wasn’t shot in an apartment. That was the first thing Danny noticed. Instead, it looked as though they were out in the countryside, definitely not Los Angeles because it was too green. Endless stretches of fields with wind blowing through tall trees made Danny lean forward as a little girl bounced on her toes. 

_“Is it going, Stu?”_

A deeper voice came from off camera and the camera jerked, nodding along with the another child’s answer.

 _“Yes.”_

The camera bobbed and then an older man, probably early-forties, stepped into view. Danny noticed is his _face_ , his _look_. He had harsh bags under his eyes, deeply cut laugh lines, and his teeth were perfect. Danny knew that _experience_ laid behind those eyes, and not all of it was pleasant. When he smiled, the world-weariness lifted and unfolded into something remarkable.

_“My name is Bobby Finstock—”_

_“No,”_ the little girl shook her head. _“Your name is Uncle Bobby.”_

_“Yeah, Shelbie, but my name is—”_

_“Uncle Bobby!”_

Danny’s eyes tracked the way Finstock’s lips twitched, how his eyes were warm when he sighed with a playful _well-shucks_ shrug. 

_“Well, you heard the lady,”_ the little girl preened at the title, _“my name is Uncle Bobby. And well… here we go.”_

The submission took off, Finstock stuck to the script at the right points but then veered wildly off course into something equally high-energy and wonderful. His niece Shelbie balanced him out especially when he seemed to call back to an old character he’d use with them. He wailed about gravity and looked to fall on her, but Danny saw the talent it took to make his body _appear_ slack despite it being carefully tense to take most of the weight off her arms. He slouched over her and rolled onto the grass. 

The boy behind the camera ran to keep the two of them in frame. And that was when Finstock rolled his eyes. 

_“Who needs color anyway? Too many choices, too much mess.”_

Danny felt like he’d been punched in the chest, his air leaving him in one rush, and the video stopped at the camera wobbling to side as Shelbie hugged her uncle tight. That line hadn’t been in the script. Now that Danny heard it, he wanted to hear it again and felt a dull, familiar throb of jealousy that he hadn’t thought of it himself. Danny hoped he wasn’t being rash, that his exhaustion wasn’t making him see the world through rose-tinted glasses. He liked Finstock. He thought he was perfect. 

He turned to Kira to ask what she thought.

Kira’s eyes were wide, her cheeks were flushed. When she turned to him her grin was _luminous_. 

“He’s _perfect_.” 

Danny squeezed her hand. He couldn’t agree more, and it was time to get to work.


	2. Production

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The entire production was intoxicating, he felt high and he wondered how Peter _did it_ , how did he seem so calm while Finstock was flummoxed. He must have stared at Peter for too long because the Shakespearean actor stepped on his foot. 
> 
> “Focus,” Peter hissed. 
> 
> Finstock saluted and a sacred hush fell over the set as everyone got ready. Danny shouted, “Action!”

An addicting tranquility came with sewing by hand. Boyd couldn’t feel his fingers but he didn’t mind as he followed each stitch with his eyes. Scarlet thread hung from his hands as he traced over the patterns he’d already stitched into his gold canvas. 

It was a chilly winter in Philadelphia and when Erica pushed into the studio she was armed with sweater and sandwiches. 

“Niles threw in mac-and-cheese and tomato soup. I think the lighting in that WaWa makes me look extra emancipated.” At any given moment, Erica Reyes looked like she was going off backpacking across the country. Her backpack was stuffed, she was bundled up in several layers, and her Doc Martens had weathered all kinds of storms. She carried two additional duffles and she rolled her shoulders once she’d dropped all her bags. “What do you think, Boyd?” 

He tucked his needle and thread into the canvas and kissed her. She made a soft, pleased noise against his lips. Boyd took her cold hands and pressed them against his mouth, warming her skin with his breath. 

“You’re beautiful.” He told her this several times a day because it was true, and even though it had been years she still blushed with an eyeroll. Boyd pressed his tongue and teeth against her fingertips. “You do need to sleep more, though.” 

“Sure, sure,” Erica waved him off the way she always did when she wanted to focus on work, “but first, I grabbed a ton of stuff from the thrift shop, Boyd, you would not _believe_ what they were giving away!” 

Boyd met Erica during their orientation. Even prestigious (and pretentious) art schools had to spend the first week herding kids from one ice-breaker activity to another. It involved a lot of nervous laughter and shallow breaths. Vernon Just-Call-Me-Boyd-Never-Call-Me- _Vern_ Boyd sat in silence when the circle of thirty kids stared at each other. 

_Share a secret, tell us something fun about yourself!_

After a minute of awkward silence, the girl sitting next to Boyd got up with a grunted, “Here we go.” 

_“I’m Erica Reyes. I have epilepsy. I’m really good about my diet and medication, but sometimes that means jack-shit. Y’all might see me have a seizure and do some pretty gross stuff, like piss myself.”_ She had a mane of dirty-blonde hair and a smile that showed too much teeth. _“Nothing brings us closer than involuntary body secretions, am I right?”_ No one answered her as she sat down. Her shoulder bumped Boyd’s hard enough to make him sway. She met his eyes, all fiery steel with a smirk, _“Sup?”_

They’d come a long way since then. Erica pulled out piece after piece of fabric. Old shirt, busted skirts, loud jackets— they all served a purpose. 

They were seniors and most nights they ended up sleeping in shifts at the studio. They didn’t have more than a couple hundred-dollars to their name and the future was as uncertain as ever. It was easy to get cynical as an art student, but he never felt that pessimism with Erica. With all her sharp barbs and loud voice, the future was bright as long as Erica was a part of it. _I want to marry you,_ Boyd thinks. 

Erica slowed her speech, her eyes wide as a satin robe fell from her fingers. Boyd bit his lip. 

“I said that out loud.” 

“You did.” She wrung her hands, her cheeks pink even as she winked. “But you’re tired. You get a pass.”

“Nah.” Boyd grinned. “Don’t want one.” He got up from his stool and stepped around Erica’s bags so he could drop to his knees. “Erica Reyes, will you—?” 

She kissed him so hard their teeth knocked together. 

The next morning they sent out Facebook invites to their wedding at the courthouse in Center City. Boyd wore a hastily made blazer with teal piping and jeans. Erica bounced on the balls of her feet in a leggings and a smock stained from their paints. Fifty people crowded into that courthouse and they all cheered when Boyd and Erica signed their marriage certificate. Later they’d realize that they had a videographer in attendance when Danny Mahealani from the film program gifted them a hard drive with their wedding and reception on it. Danny had stuck a piece of tape to it and scrawled “Relationship Goals” on it. 

Years later Boyd and Erica walked arm-in-arm to Jim Henson studios. It was early, just about dawn, and Danny ran out to meet them, sweeping them both up in tight hugs. 

“Thanks so much for coming,” Danny said with a smile that was brighter than Boyd was used to seeing on him. “Follow me, we’ve got a few months before shooting and a ton of materials, you just let me know anything you need, anything at all.” 

Boyd was still wiping sleep from his eyes when Danny pushed open the doors to the studio. Boyd’s hands went limp and fell from his wife. Yards of materials of all threads waited for them. Danny had sent them storyboards and sketches, but now it was physically in front of him. He vaguely remembers shaking a young woman’s hand as Danny said, “this is my producing partner, Kira Yukimura.”

What he did remember was the feel of wood and emerald cloth under his calloused fingers. Erica went for the wood and steel while Boyd separated fabrics by color. He’d heard people say that watching him and Erica work was like watching an elaborate dance of intricate choreography. They got to work, directed PAs, and within eight hours the trolley had been constructed, lighter than it looked and mostly fabric stretched tight over framing. Erica rigged up the backdrops and Boyd wiped his forehead. 

Sometimes, not always, but sometimes Boyd would know when he created something great. 

“Wow.” 

Kira’s mouth was agape and Danny nodded and echoed her sentiment. The trolley was emerald green with a semi-sheer overlay of gold to make it shimmer under the lights. The trim was a deep bronze. Boyd’s arms ached but he felt good. Erica hopped down from the back drop pieces, a cluster of PAs parting away from her as she jogged up to Danny. 

“I had an idea for the movement of it.” She winked at Boyd as she bumped Danny with her elbow. “Before I explain, we’d like to test it out, if you’d climb inside.” 

Danny took in Erica’s wolfish grin and pushed Kira forward.

“Kira, why don’t you try it?”

Erica took Kira by the hand and helped her into the Trolley while motioning to the PAs to get into position. Kira stood with her hand on the upper railing as she gazed down the aisle. 

Whenever they went to Disneyland Erica would _run_ to get a Fastpass for the Indiana Jones ride. Boyd loved color and aesthetic while Erica was obsessed with _movement_. From the elegance of ballet to the severity of her rare seizures, Erica had a deep fascination for kinetic force. She couldn’t get over that in order to get around the fact that the particular track on that Indiana Jones could not have riders go backwards for safety reasons. So when they couldn’t move the _car_ —

Boyd, Erica, and the PAs grabbed the pulleys and poles to move the backdrops and Kira shrieked, her hands shooting out to steady herself despite the fact that the trolley never moved. Her knees shook and her knuckles were white as she leaned close to the windows as glittering skies and cloud flew by. The movement stopped and Kira stumbled, her cheeks flushed and her eyes shining. 

Danny clapped Boyd hard on the shoulder. 

“That,” Danny beamed as Kira hugged Erica, “is the look we were aiming for.” 

Kira hugged Boyd next and she turned to Danny when she pulled away. 

“We’ve got work to do.” 

::::

Finstock was aware that, at his age, he shouldn’t get nervous about things like starting a new job. Especially for a job that had been such a ridiculous long-shot that when Lydia said he’d _gotten it_ he thought she was joking. She hadn’t been joking so Finstock was at Jim Henson studios bright and early with the pink thermos Shelbie had given him for Christmas. He took a sip, his index finger nervously smoothing over the holographic heart stickers Shelbie had used as additional decorations. 

When he pushed open the door to the studios, the early-morning hush was obliterated by the chaos of jovial shouting, equipment being constructed, and a swift pair of hands took away his coffee. 

“Wait,” Finstock twisted but whoever had grabbed his thermos had disappeared in the sea of people. PAs herded him past the glittering set that Finstock wanted to stop and marvel at. He was pushed into a makeup chair where a skinny young man with large circles tattooed onto his neck stared down at him with crossed arms. Finstock didn’t cower, he _didn’t_. “I had coffee, someone took it—”

“You’re wearing an undershirt, right?” 

Finstock narrowed his eyes. 

“Yeah.” 

“Take your shirt and pants off. We’ve got to airbrush you.” 

The makeup artist’s name was Jetson and he was covered in tattoos and wore his hair back in a messy bun. His fingernails were painted black and when he talked his voice was curt and clipped, but every touch was gentle. When they were done and Finstock was in his black slacks and white button down shirt with a comically crumpled and askew tie. He was grey scale pop art. 

Jetson snapped a picture of him with his phone.

“You are portfolio worthy.” 

“Wow,” Finstock grinned, crooked and lax. “You’re a silver-tongued charmer, Jetson.” 

Jetson flipped him off. Finstock looked down at himself, at the hidden hues of blue that added to his rigid and sad aura. His face had been painted light grey and then the shadows of grey and blues were added. He took a picture of himself and sent it to Lydia. 

A throat cleared behind him. Kira Yukimura held his thermos out to him with a pink straw in it. 

“Sorry I had to take it from you before,” Finstock took it graciously with his grey, painted hands. “Jetson insisted that you don’t mess up your lips so you’ll need to use a straw.” 

She was shorter than him but her height seemed like an optical illusion, because surely no one like Kira would ever be considered tiny. She’d been the main person Finstock had been in contact with after he’d gotten over his disbelief in being cast. Over email she’d been sweet and she only became sweeter when he shook her hand in person.

What he couldn’t get over were her eyes, how she saw things eight steps ahead of everyone else. Those same eyes swept over him, at the light polish on his fingernails and the exaggerated purple lines under his eyes to deepen his wrinkles and worry lines. 

“Stunning work.” She smiled and any witty rejoinders fled Finstock’s mind when she sighed, “you’re positively striking, Finstock. Your markers are in green, we’ll begin shooting shortly.” 

Her vast gaze left him and he was alone. He straightened his posture, turned off his phone, and made his way to set. The room was abuzz with frantic energy as everyone was finding their place. Erica loomed by on stilts with… what sounded like rain-makers attached to the legs, made up as a towering creature. PAs rushed to get him micced, Jetson hovered with last minute touch-ups and a blast of setting spray and finally Finstock stumbled to his marker and bumped into _Peter Hale_. 

Peter had been dressed in a slouched V-Neck and jeans at their rehearsals. Even with his crossed legs and reading glasses, it was still _Peter Hale_. His clothes had changed significantly. He was draped in an indigo uniform with bright gold buttons and a gleaming pocketwatch. His cheeks were the kind of rosy that would make Norman Rockwell satisfied. 

Peter glanced at him. 

“Adorable.” 

The half-moon spectacles that rested on Peter’s nose did nothing to diminish that man’s electrifying presence. 

“Thank you.” Finstock bowed, over-the-top with flourish. “You’re lookin’ pretty cute yourself, Peter.” 

With Peter and Finstock ready to go that just left—

“Hey, guys!” Stiles bounded over like a golden-retriever. It looked like Jetson gave him a look opposite of Finstock, with exaggerated color and a shimmering streaks of glitter on his cheeks. He punched Finstock’s shoulder and grinned. “Wow, they gave you the full dystopia treatment.” 

The kid was a sarcastic bundle of energy that Finstock found comforting when performing opposite of _Peter fucking Hale_. Finstock nodded, looking down at his drab costume. 

“I know. I could be in a _Brazil_ reboot.” 

Stiles stumbled backwards so dramatically that Peter ducked to catch him, only for Stiles to recover. He inhaled sharply and waggled his eyebrows. 

_“Brazil,”_ Stiles sang, _“where hearts were entertaining June,”_

_“We stood beneath an amber moon,”_ Finstock answered with a manic grin. 

They threw their arms around each other and sang together. 

_“And softly murmured ‘Someday soon.’”_

Finstock and Stiles broke off into tittering giggles that lapsed into Finstock struggling to catch is breath as he traded his favorite quotes from the film. Peter rolled his eyes as Danny’s voice cut through the chaos. 

“Alright, everyone, get into position.” 

Danny’s command sent the production into a rush. There was a final push where Jetson went and did last-minute fixes, one which included twisting his fingers around the wire that went through Finstock’s tie to allow it to be calculatedly crooked. The entire production was intoxicating, he felt high and he wondered how Peter _did it_ , how did he seem so calm while Finstock was flummoxed. He must have stared at Peter for too long because the Shakespearean actor stepped on his foot. 

“Focus,” Peter hissed. 

Finstock saluted and a sacred hush fell over the set as everyone got ready. Danny shouted, “Action!” 

::::

Their lunch break was more of a brunch break, if Stiles was being one-hundred-percent-real. 

Everyone was spread out across the Jim Henson courtyard and Stiles meandered over to Finstock. The older man had carefully taken off his suit-jacket and button-down so he was sweating in his undershirt and slacks. Stiles handed Finstock a bottle of water. Finstock grunted a series of sounds that could have been the word, “Thanks,” before he sucked it down in a matter of seconds. 

He held his hand out and Stiles gave him the bottle he’d been saving for himself. He watched, this time Finstock’s water intake was a tad slower. He wiped his mouth and Stiles didn’t have the heart to point out that he smeared a stripe of grey off of his lips. 

“Thanks. I needed that.”

Finstock and Stiles shared a bench. Stiles had floated around the courtyard, he’d always been chatty his whole life, but when he wanted to settle he chose to do so with Finstock. Peter was… Stiles didn’t want him to think that Stiles was _starstruck_ or anything, that and Peter seemed comfortable side-by-side with Kira. 

“When did you start doing comedy?”

Finstock blew out a long breath. 

“Well, I started reading books on comedy when I was thirteen and did a few talent shows when I was fifteen. Show-shows started when I was twenty-two.” Finstock cracked his knuckles and grimaced. “Fuck, I’m old.” 

“Nah, you’re not old.” Stiles kicked his legs out and slapped Finstock’s abdomen with the back of his hand. “You’re… seasoned.” 

Finstock rolled his eyes. 

“Nice save.” 

Finstock had a natural face for comedy. His eyes were huge, his face was malleable, and the expressions he could make with his mouth alone were insane. Stiles would have been miserable if he’d been the only one to crack up over Finstock’s face, but even Peter had laughed to near tears a couple of times. But it wasn’t just Finstock’s face that sparked Stiles’s envy. 

“Improv is all about co-dependency. It’s about relying on your team as an organism, without one member, the body fails.” Finstock had been hesitant to talk about comedy until Stiles gently continued prying, and then they were standing in their barefeet. Finstock shook out his arms. “I’m more of a stand-up guy, but improv is useful for keeping sharp.” 

Stiles put his sandwich down on the bench and joined Finstock. 

“Some of it sounds like acting exercises.” 

Finstock shrugged. 

“Maybe. You’d know more than me.” 

He showed Stiles the simplicity of it, mirroring action and reaction. He’d push Stiles’s shoulder with two fingers, Stiles would mirror the action and they’d go back-and forth until the movements became fluid. It turned to speech, word association, mimicry, and repetition. Stiles was sure that they were attracting stares, but he felt none of the usual anxieties that came with a performance. Finstock effortlessly anchored him in the present. 

The exercises reminded Stiles of bioluminescent algae, one catalyst sent out a twinkling array of reaction that transformed the entire picture.

He felt less cagey, less nervous as he walked back to set with his arm around Finstock’s shoulders. Jetson pulled Finstock away for makeup touch ups, and the child actors arrived for their half of filming. One of the other make-up artists, Monica, painted tiny stars on the apple of Stiles’s cheeks. 

On the edge of the stage Peter did some kind of breathing exercises. 

Peter was in full costume and the whimsical nature of his makeup did nothing to take away from his elegance. The stage lights cast harsh shadows around him. His eyes were closed and his breaths were deep and loud, the percussion to his sharp movements. Stiles had seen nothing like it before. 

The kids were wide-eyed and intimidated. Stiles watched them hover nervously, fingers in their mouths as they watched Peter repeat the motions. 

Stiles stepped up alongside Peter, out of his space so his fingers wouldn’t accidently bump him. He copied him, from his breathing, to the fast motion of twisting his spine, stepping to the side, and pushing out his arms like he was painting a picture. At the end of the third set, Stiles waved the kids over. By the time Peter opened his eyes, he was shocked to see that he wasn’t alone, Stiles, Finstock, and the kids following him beat-for-beat. 

::::

There was something to be said about experiencing the taste of rum and ginger beer bubbling across his tongue while gazing out over the twinkling lights of Downtown. The Perch provided such delights and the restaurant perfectly balanced pretentious atmosphere with enough edge for people to refrain from rolling their eyes. It was a restaurant in Downtown Los Angeles known for its height. To get to the main dining area and rooftop it was necessary to take two elevators, one for the first thirteen floors, and another for the final four. 

Peter’s dinner with his agent had wrapped up a half hour ago. He lingered, drifting out from the safety of his table in the dining area, to the expanse of rooftop, an open area where people could drink and admire the stunning view. Eyes would glance at him and pause as the watcher tried to place his face, only to immediately look away. 

Los Angeles held a special place in Peter’s heart. The people there played by a different kind of rules, where they would rarely speak unless spoken to, no one would hound him for an autograph or clumsily ask “Hey, where do I know you from?” Here it would be a glance, realization, and the polite faux-indifference. 

A flash of color drew his attention away from the horizon and back to the sea of people. The howling murmur of conversation dulled to expose familiar, bubbly laughter. 

Stiles was leaning on the railing, his neck tilted back as he laughed at a woman’s joke. He wore dark jeans that made his legs look even _longer_ and a bright teal jacket. _Radiant_ , Peter thought as his throat went dry, _absolutely radiant._

As if he could feel Peter’s gaze, Stiles glanced over and went still, for a brief moment, before he smiled. 

He detached himself from the small group he was with and jogged over, awkwardly twisting out of a few patrons’ way in order to make it to Peter’s side. 

“Hey, dude.” Stiles’s smile was crooked and he clapped his hand on Peter’s arm and squeezed for a split-second before releasing. “I didn’t expect to see you here. Weird, it’s not a weekday and I’m not painted in glitter and neon.” 

“I hate to take the wind out of your sails,” Peter smiled lazily and briefly dragged his thumb lightly over Stiles’s cheek, “but you have some lingering sparkles here.” 

Stiles’s fingers chased after Peter’s. Peter didn’t like younger actors, but Stiles was different than some of the absolute _divas_ Peter had to work beside. His confidence never curdled into arrogance. He worked hard and didn’t try to make small-talk with negative grousing. Even when he copied Peter’s breathing exercises it never felt like malice or ironic, just something he wanted to join. Now Peter was the leader of Stiles, Finstock, and a slew of kids. Even some crew members would follow along if they had the time. 

“So,” Stiles grinned, “what are you doing here?” 

“I finished dinner with my agent. You?” 

“Birthday party for Monica!” Stiles turned back to his friends. “I think they’re going to move on though, maybe get something hot and greasy before more drinking.” He rolled his shoulders. “I really could go for a cup of coffee, if I’m being honest.” 

Time slowed to a syrupy crawl. Stiles’s cheeks shimmered in the dim lighting. Peter savored the taste of smoke and desert air on his tongue. He hummed and the noise made Stiles glance back at him. 

“I was planning on leaving soon. I have coffee at my place, if you’d be up to that.” 

Peter recognized a part of Stiles, the way he carefully calculated every touch to be short but not _too short_ to seem rude, but not _too long_ to portray _intent_. It was how Stiles never participated in benign conversations about his personal life. Stiles had done an excellent job at masking his accent, the only time it snuck out was when he was exhausted after a long day of shooting. It was subtle, but Peter had a habit of noticing subtleties. 

It was a risk, sure. Peter played it safe for so long it was nerve-wracking to put himself out there, no matter how relaxed he kept his posture. Stiles could still recoil, deny him, or maybe not even hear the double-meaning. 

“U-um.” Stiles scratched his cheek, his smile crooked. “Let me check in with my friends, all right? I do want to, but—”

“But you came with them first.” Peter nodded and Stiles slackened with relief. “Go on, either way it was good to see you.” 

“Yeah. Just,” Stiles squeezed Peter’s arm again, a feather-light moment of contact that was over in a flash, “just hang on a second.” 

He scampered back to his group. Peter watched, slowly finishing his drink, as the girl, Monica, slapped Stiles’s shoulder. Peter didn’t have to be near them to see the, “Oh my God, _go_ , Stiles.” She laughed and kissed his cheek, leaving a scarlet lip print behind. Stiles returned with a grin. 

“I’m free. Let’s get our caffeine on.” 

Peter held out his elbow and a silly thrill went through him when Stiles immediately looped his arm through. 

“Right this way, Stiles.” 

They drove with the windows down to Silverlake. Stiles fiddled with the radio before letting his own chatter fill the silence. It was easy to fit into the casual rhythm Stiles created as he passed the distressingly shallow lake that preceded the winding road up the hills. He stopped in his carport and Stiles whistled. 

“Fuck the Perch,” Stiles breathed and bounced on the balls of his feet as Peter unlocked the gate, “I mean, this must be a killer view during the day, Peter.” 

His house did indeed have a great view. It was a brown house with support beams that seemed to come of German influence. It had hardwood floors and high ceilings, and a tiny balcony where the view down the hill was even more breathtaking. Stiles fumbled to untie his lime green Chucks while Peter easily kicked off his shoes. Stiles’s brown eyes took in every detail, every piece of artwork, his many, _many_ , bookshelves, and his cozy furniture. He was quiet. Peter wondered what his home said about himself, what kind of things Stiles was beginning to presume. 

“Well, this is my lair.” Peter turned on the lights and Stiles followed him to the kitchen. He started coffee and leaned against the counter. Stiles rested his shoulder against the doorframe, his bare toes on the tile. For some reason the sight of the young man’s bare feet hit home _hard_. Stiles was here, and he was wringing his hands as the smell of coffee filled the kitchen. “There’s no need to be nervous.” 

Stiles froze and didn’t let go of his hands, knowing that would only be more of a tell.

“I’m not nervous.” 

Peter didn’t roll his eyes. Instead he exhaled, slowly. 

“This can just be coffee. That’s fine. I have great coffee.” Stiles laughed, breathy and he dropped his hands out of the white-knuckled grip he had on them. “I’ve got too many books and I’m sure I can find something to interest you if you just wanted to read and drink coffee. But this can also be _coffee_.” 

Peter purred and pretended his heart wasn’t pounding hard in his chest. Stiles’s tongue darted out nervously across his lips. 

“Isn’t there a saying about this? Mixing work with pleasure?” 

Stiles was young and this must have been his first real gig. There was only so much a person could mimic and chameleon their way through before they’d have to stop and ask some questions. He worried his lips between his teeth but he also stared at Peter’s mouth and neck. Peter smiled, slow and easy. 

“Sure. But I think it’s a lack of communication that makes things go sour.” The coffee stopped, it’s slow drip punctuating each passing second. “I’m not asking for a committed relationship. It’s not something I need right now. But having someone who’d want to be casually physical…” 

Stiles grinned. 

“Got it.” He pushed himself off the doorway, his shoulders considerably less tense. “Well, why don’t you give me the tour?”

Peter snickered and bowed his head, leading Stiles out of the kitchen. The lights were dimmed and their footsteps were quiet. Stiles was silent, no longer speaking to fill the silence. Peter pushed open the door to his bedroom, more of a loft that was up the short stairwell. It was expansive with large windows and, of course, more full bookshelves. Peter felt a brief wave of anxiety go through him at Stiles’s continued silence. He turned and hoped that Stiles hadn’t gotten too nervous, that Peter hadn’t been wildly off course.

He turned in time to see Stiles pull his shirt up and over his head, his blazer hung up on Peter’s coat rack. Stiles tossed his shirt to the floor and Peter raised an eyebrow.

“You hung your jacket but you’re just going to leave your shirt on the floor?” 

“Dude, that shirt’s from Target.” He kicked off his jeans. “Pretty sure I got these at Walmart. And you don’t want to know how long I’ve had these underwear.” 

Peter didn’t look down at Stiles’s underwear but he felt his cheeks get hot all the same. Stiles laughed, loud enough for it to echo off the ceiling. Peter leaned forward and kissed the laughter from his lips, though Stiles’s shoulders still twitched with mirth even as his tongue swiped across Peter’s lower lip. Peter groaned when Stiles snipped down Peter’s neck and roughly pulled at Peter’s shirt. 

“Hey, hey.” Peter stepped back and was charmed at how bruised Stiles’s lips were already. “This _isn’t_ from Target.” 

Peter carefully unbuttoned his shirt and folded his pants across his desk chair. He turned, surely to say something witty, but he was quickly kissed. Steering Stiles to the bed was easy, getting both of their underwear off was not. It was difficult when there was so many inches of pale skin exposed and Peter resorted to pushing Stiles firmly to his bed. He watched Stiles’s pupils expand as Peter lazily rolled his hips. 

“Oh,” Stiles breathed shallowly and swallowed. “Okay.” 

Peter pressed his grin against Stiles’s fluttering pulse. Goosebumps spread along Stiles’s neck and Peter chased them with his tongue. 

“Good boy.” And _oh_ , he _felt_ Stiles’s cock jump. The young man’s breath was hot and heavy. “You just stay still, Stiles.” 

“S-sure.” Stiles’s voice wavered and he cleared his throat. “Sure thing, Peter.” 

Funny, Peter hadn’t realized how hungry he’d been for a good fuck until he kissed down Stiles’s neck, making sure to only suck hard below his collarbone. Stiles writhed and Peter hummed with delight when Stiles followed Peter’s order to keep (relatively) still. Peter’s body _ached_ , it had been so long and he had miles of Stiles to explore.

His nipples were not sensitive, just ticklish, and Peter would return to that later. He continued, smirking when he saw that Stiles’s fingers twitched and curled into fists when Peter slowly dragged his underwear down his legs. His cock slapped his stomach, leaving a smear just below his navel. 

“Stay still.” Peter breathed his command against Stiles’s erection. Electric shivers sparked down his spine at Stiles’s vulgar string of whined curses. He hadn’t held down trembling thighs for _so long_. He dug his nails into Stiles’s thighs, watching the skin turn red, then white as he removed the pressure. “Your skin is beautiful.” 

Stiles rolled his eyes and rolled his hips. 

“Are you just going to stare or are we actually going to do somethin’?”

 

His accent emerged, just a tad and Peter was sure Stiles didn’t notice because he didn’t flush and correct himself. Peter clicked his tongue and went to work. Sucking dick was like riding a bike, you never really forget. It was rewarding, every suckle would pull a long, bewildered moan out of Stiles’s unfairly lush lips. His fingers gently cupped Stiles’s balls and when he lightly squeezed Stiles shouted. Before Peter could pull back and apologize, Stiles whimpered and came. 

Peter coughed and pulled back. He swallowed just as Stiles sat up, his face speckled with pink and red splotches. 

“Are you okay?” Stiles babbled and licked into Peter’s mouth and caressed his cheek. “I usually, it just happened so fast, I didn’t give you any warning at all—” 

“Stiles,” Peter slowed him down, drawing out kisses longer and longer until the young man’s words slowed, “I don’t know about you, but when I’ve got a dick in my mouth I have an idea of how it’s going to go.” Stiles snorted and ran his fingers down his face before he gripped Peter’s erection and squeezed. Peter’s hips jerked forward and he hissed. “There, you’ve got the idea.” 

“Oh my God,” Stiles pulled Peter onto the bed and pushed him down. “You’re so weird.” 

Peter snorted. 

“So are you.” 

“Whatever, you like it.” Peter did, he _really_ did. In fact, he liked Stiles so much it frightened him. The young man leaned back and bounced on the bed, his legs wobbling endearingly. “All right,” he winked, “now it’s your turn to be still.” 

_Frightening_ , Peter swallowed when Stiles ran his tongue over his bruised lips. He smirked, like he knew how many nights Peter had spent telling himself it _wasn’t_ those very same lips he’d been jerking off to, that the moles on the neck of his fantasies were coincidental details. _Truly frightening_. 

::::

The best time to get samples of the birds chirping was _moments_ before dawn. Isaac Lahey had two pairs of socks on each foot to makeup for his big boots. His knitted scarf was tucked into his jacket and he made his way deep into the woods, his microphone on and ready. 

Tangerine streaks cracked across the sky and the birds woke up. Isaac held his microphone high, his headphones relaying every chirp he collected. He grinned despite the cold that nipped at his nose. Next came the sound of melting ice falling into the river, and after that, his boots against frost-crusted grass. He drifted along the Colorado mountains until the sun warmed his back. 

Isaac made his way back down to his truck. 

He’d rolled into town a few years ago with nothing to his name but his car, two thousand dollars, his mother’s audio equipment, and bruises on his chest. His bruises healed, he fixed up the audio equipment, and his car’s heater was still going strong. The world kept spinning, seasons came and went. 

Lou’s Diner wasn’t supposed to give out their wi-fi, but Isaac had a special privilege. Really, Ol’ Lou just liked him. 

Isaac had his seat in the corner where the table wobbled while waitresses swallowed yawns and coffee. Isaac let himself thaw as he transferred the audio files to his laptop and hard drive. 

Even the diner held a beautiful array of sounds. Lou always laughed when Isaac would say it, but still the old man would watch Isaac sweep his microphone from one place to another. The hiss of coffee being made, the drip of rain from the gutters, the light clink of spoons against full cups of coffee, and the squeak of wet boots on tile. Isaac had his headphones and sighed dreamily, replaying the journey from that morning. 

Music was all well and good, but _sound_ … sound in all its forms was the universe’s music. 

The morning Isaac’s life changed for a _second_ time it was raining. The water had a way of hitting the glass that made Isaac’s eyes slide shut. He warmed his hands on his hot chocolate. In a half hour he’d wander to the counter and bug Lou for some eggs and toast. Lou would try and sneak in extra sausage because, _“You’re just too damn skinny, you’re gonna freeze to death one of these days.”_ Lou had a way of smiling with his eyes despite a permanent scowl etched onto his weathered face. 

Isaac told Lou this once and the old man guffawed. 

_“You’ve sure got a rosy way of seeing the world, Isaac,”_ Lou exclaimed. He quieted, and he softened his voice. _“Everything really is beautiful to you, huh, kid?”_

_“Well, sure,”_ Isaac had said while recording the far-away sizzle of butter on cast-iron, _“everything is beautiful after you see the ugliest it can get.”_

Isaac always got extra food after that and Lou bullied him into getting some sides but always seemed to leave them off the bill. 

But right, it had begun raining after eight. Isaac had been eighteen and a half, but he’d been telling people he was twenty. The rain provided a soothing percussion to the gentle whispers of conversation from the morning regulars. Chocolate was on his tongue and Isaac blew on his fingers just a silky British voice cut through the diner’s sound. 

“Excuse me, young man,” Isaac glanced up and saw a man with a long dark cane that stretched out before him. He wore dark glasses though Isaac could see that his eyes weren’t looking at him. He had on nice clothes, the kind that Isaac only had to look at once to know that they were _nice_. His gloves were leather and thin. “Are you free for a quick word?” 

Lou was trying to look like he wasn’t staring and a woman dressed in similar _nice_ clothes kept him busy at the counter with her severe indifferent expression. Isaac stood quickly. 

“Yes, of course.” 

He gently touched the man’s arm and guided him to the booth. The man smirked, like Isaac was _just too sweet_. He pulled off his gloves slowly and his fingers were long. He had slight scarring, from what, Isaac couldn’t be sure but they were tiny and spread over his hands like constellations. The sound of them leaving the glove was soft and thin, like a shake shedding skin. Isaac’s fingers itched to get his microphone. 

The man cleared his throat and Isaac jumped. He realized it was foolish, to get embarrassed for staring at a man’s hands when that man could not see him, but he still blushed. The man’s smile widened, like he _knew_ Isaac had been looking. He arched his back and folded his long fingers together. 

“I’ve had quite the time trying to find you, you know. The radio station in Boulder pointed me here easily enough, but once I got to this little town everyone got rather tight-lipped.” The man was in his forties, maybe, and his hair had bits of silver starting to appear throughout. His voice was teasing but precise, severely focused that made Isaac feel pinned. “I heard the bumpers you made for the local NPR branch. Lovely. Incredible work how you,” the man extended his hands, his long fingers outstretched, “take organic sound and twist it into music. You didn’t use an artificial beat at all.” The man shuddered but still grinned. He took off his glasses and his eyes were like opals. “It’s unlike anything I’ve ever heard, my dear. And I’ve heard a lot.” 

The sounds of the world faded away until Isaac could only hear his own thudding heartbeat and how his throat clicked when he swallowed. His eyes burned suddenly and he blinked rapidly to clear his blurring vision. Tears fell and he hoped that the man hadn’t heard the brief pause in his breath. 

“Oh. Um.” Isaac did his best to speak around the lump in his throat. “Thank you.” 

The man’s smile softened and he held out his hand. 

“I’m Deucalion Blackwood.” He spoke his own name like it was one Isaac should recognize. When Isaac didn’t react, Deucalion continued. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.” 

Isaac took his hand and felt the star-scars. 

“Pleasure. I’m Isaac Lahey.” 

Deucalion laughed, helpless giggles that he quickly hid with his hand. 

“I know.” 

Sound returned to Isaac’s world and their laughter became a part of the diner. The way Deucalion tapped his foot against Isaac’s, the whisper of leather covering his hands, and his voice that curled in the air like smoke… it was the best song Isaac had heard. When it softened and slowed, Deucalion pulled out his wallet. The business card that pressed against Isaac’s palm was stiff, the lettering bold and engraved. Before he left, Deucalion made Isaac an impossible job offer. 

Isaac Lahey was twenty-eight and he didn’t have to lie about it anymore.

Los Angeles was an entirely new symphony compared to Colorado. It held so many sounds that Isaac was constantly buying new hard drives. Deucalion was a kind and generous man, though he never failed to laugh when Isaac called him that. They spoke at length about sound and music until Isaac lost his voice. Deucalion played Brian Eno for him and said that he was like Isaac, that he was able to hear music in _everything_. 

He was at work in the studio when he got an email from one of his older bandcamp accounts. Isaac slowly lifted off his headphones as he re-read the email, then clicked through the images sent to him from an unassuming Danny Mahealani. Isaac rubbed and his eyes and went through them again, his mouth going dry at every splash of color, at the movement that translated through still photos of the set. 

_I’ve been a long admirer of your work and when I was writing this show I was listening to your music. I couldn’t find your representative, so I’m emailing you through here… I know it’s a long shot._

He moved quickly, shutting down his systems and looping his headphones around his neck as he gathered up his things into his bag and ran to the elevator. The studios were soundproofed oases hidden below a towering building. The first fifteen floors were rented out to other businesses, and the remaining twenty floors were a part of a record company. At the very top in an office with a great view, was Deucalion. 

The elevator doors opened and a wall of _sound_ made Isaac freeze long enough to make the elevator doors begin to close before he darted out. Assistants ran from one office to another, papers were copied, phones constantly rang, and everyone had a habit of being breathless. 

He hugged his bag close and touched his hair self-consciously. All the people on the upper floors were polished metal, not a centimeter out of place or frazzled. Isaac still favored his old jacket. He worried a frayed thread between his fingers and tried not to let his shoulders slump when Deucalion’s assistant Jadis, a severe young woman with intricately disheveled hair, stood. 

“I thought I told you to text me when you wanted to see Deuc.” Her lips were pressed into a thin line and her clothes _weren’t_ frayed. “He doesn’t like surprises, Isaac.” 

“I know,” Isaac swallowed and he watched Jadis type on her phone, no doubt sending her boss a text. “I know, I _know_ , but this thing just came up and I, uh, I just go this email and I—”

Deucalion’s door swung open and the entire floor fell silent aside from the phones. 

“Isaac, you always seem to know when I need my day brightened!” Deucalion reached out and as soon as Isaac touched him, Deucalion pulled him into a tight hug. “While I do hate surprises, you are the exception.” They parted and Deucalion’s weight was a comforting anchor on Isaac’s shoulder. “Come on in. Make yourself comfortable.” 

The office was sharp and angular, the art on the walls were violent in their bursts of color, which only served the further irony that Deucalion couldn’t see any of it. Isaac watched the door swing shut behind him, as other assistants crowded around Jadis to ask, _“Just who is that guy, again?”_

When the door shut Isaac let out the breath he’d been holding. Deucalion turned, his smile sliding into a smirk. 

“Jadis still scares you?” 

“She’s not _scary_ , she’s just intimidating.” Isaac cleared his throat. “Anyway, I wanted to talk to you about something. I got this email, from my bandcamp account, the first one I made.” Isaac laughed. “I mean, I forgot I even had it… it was a job offer as a composer and… he sent me these stills, and I want to do it.” 

Typically Isaac never asked for jobs, he just went in the direction that Deucalion pointed. Whether it was atmosphere for airports or music for commercials, Isaac had been happy to follow Deucalion’s suggestions. He’d never asked for anything before, and oddly, it never occurred to Isaac _to_ ask until that very moment. 

Deucalion’s smile faded into an odd expression, oddly impassive. Before Isaac could squirm, Deucalion spoke quietly. 

“These pictures… they convinced you this is a worthwhile project to lend your talents to?” 

“Yes. _Yes_. Deuc, I… I haven’t seen anything like it before.” Isaac felt a hysterical buzz grow within him, his cheeks flushed and his eyes glassy. “I don’t want anyone else to do it but me.” 

If only Deucalion could _see_ the pictures, he’d understand. The words withered on Isaac’s tongue, the question of whether or not he should describe each picture. Deucalion instead held out his hands. 

“Tell me about this project… I want to see your face when you do.” 

He immediately took Deucalion’s hands into his own. Isaac guided Deucalion’s fingers to his face as he read the email from his phone. It was how Danny spoke about his project, not just letting the pictures do the work. About what he wanted this kid’s show to say, and how it had changed so much because of the actors and artists working together, and how it needed the right music to make this organism come to life. To make _The Last Trolley Stop_ a living, breathing, _real thing_. 

Isaac wanted to go to Jim Henson studios right away and grab as many sounds as he could. He wanted to hear this creature for himself, he wanted to touch and feel every moving part so he could understand it. He wanted, he wanted, he _wanted_. 

All the while Deucalion’s fingers picked up every line that moved in Isaac’s face, how his cheeks were hot with anticipation, and how his body shivered from the thought of gathering all the sounds he needed. He knew what instruments he’d use, he had so many ideas he was starting to get a headache. 

Deucalion’s fingers lingered at his temple and pulse on his neck. 

“You’ll be the one to breathe life into this man’s television show?” 

Deucalion pondered, his sightless eyes boring into Isaac’s. Isaac tilted his chin up and Deucalion felt how his face pulled back into a grin. 

“I won’t just make it breathe, I’ll make it _sing_.” 

They shared the same breath and finally Deucalion let his fingers fall away from Isaac. Isaac swayed forward, always chasing the contact even though he had years to adapt to physical touch. Deucalion reached out to steady him, just a gentle squeeze on his arm. 

“Very well.” Deucalion ruffled Isaac’s hair. “Forward me the email and I’ll start talking with their team and work on a contract.” 

He smiled and Isaac couldn’t be sure… but Deucalion sounded proud.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Friday! I'm having a real blast writing this story, guys. And we got to meet Erica, Boyd, Isaac, and Deuc today! Erica and Boyd are based of The Daniels. Isaac is... what I hope a mixture of Alexandre Desplat and Cristobal Tapia de Veer would be like. :) 
> 
> Please, tell me what you think. All comments welcome and encouraged!
> 
> Also I'll probably be posting mini-playlists for each chapter on my tumblr mia6363.tumblr.com so check that out if you're interested!


	3. Weekends and Nightlife

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It was easy to argue over what movie to see, even easier to juggle giant sodas and popcorn while they settled in for an indie thriller. _Surely it shouldn’t be this easy_ , Kira thought hours later when the sky faded into blues and purples like a bruise. They sat on a table at In-N-Out and _it shouldn’t be this easy_.

Cheap beer floated in semi-cold water in a bucket. Thin rope awkwardly tied off a smattering of chairs from the rest of the sex shop in West Hollywood. Awkward, frantic murmurs filled the store as people desperately looked at their phones instead of the walls lined with dildos. There was nothing separating the audience from the rest of the store but the flimsy rope. The lights were fluorescent. The “stage” was ground-level and had a singular mic stand. The performers would be standing at the microphone with leather masks, whips, and lubricants at their back. 

It was the worst comedy venue Lydia Martin had ever seen. 

She sat in the back and even that seemed too close to the stage. The other audience members, maybe thirty people _tops_ , laughed nervously before the host came on, his sweat luminescent under the unforgiving lighting. 

“All right guys, we’ve got a great line-up for you today and a, uh, special guest at the end so stick around. Don’t forget about the free beer!” 

People didn’t like to laugh when others could see them, sex toys made people uncomfortable, and bright lights meant that the comics would see every grimace, smirk, and eyeroll. It was every comedian’s worst nightmare. 

Lydia sat back. If anyone bombed she wouldn’t hold it against them, but if someone could make jokes land at a venue like this… 

The opener was some young kid whose name started with a J. He was a bit too abstract for Lydia’s taste and the only laughter he kicked up were uncomfortable chuckles that were half pitying and half pleas for the act to end. He had thick glasses and when he stumbled off stage, Lydia was the only one who caught that his clumsiness was a part of his act.

The next two comedians were forgettable, all bad date stories that weren’t properly timed and turned into awkward come-ons to women in the front few rows. 

Time was winding down before the “special guest” arrived and Lydia could tell from the grumbling just beyond the rope that the other comedians’ times had been cut. Most riffed about dildos which got old fast. 

The second-to-last comedian only had two minutes. 

He was tall, his shirt was baggy, and he had the darkest bags under his eyes that Lydia had ever seen. His laugh lines on his face were harsh, like someone had carved them in with a knife. His skin was milky-white and his black hair shot out in all directions as though he’d just stepped off the electric chair. _He’s lucky_ , Lydia remembered thinking as she leaned forward on her uncomfortable folding chair, _his face is funny enough even if his jokes don’t land_. 

Lydia watched him roughly grab the mic, his eyes manic and furious. The veins in his neck bulged. 

“We’re all adults here,” Bobby Finstock growled into the microphone, his eyes burning across the audience, “so we can all agree that God isn’t real.” 

It hit like a punch to the throat. Lydia leaned back with the audience and the laughter was ripped from their mouths. His grip tightened the microphone and around their throats as he smiled. 

“I know I’m pandering to you people since this is West Hollywood and all, but this whole gay marriage debate doesn’t make any fuckin’ sense. Politicians keep saying that once gay marriage is legalized than people will marry their dogs. Which is bullshit and I can tell you why,” he sucked in a breath through his teeth, “it’s not easy to fuck a dog.” The raw aggression harvested more laughter. His teeth were huge and gleamed in the nauseatingly bright light. “Let’s just go through the logistics. Let’s go step-by-step on what it would take to fuck a dog.” 

He was brutal. He was relentless. He could use more polish but not enough to make Lydia lose focus. It felt as though he were reaching inside them and, with the same white-knuckled grip he had on the microphone, pulled every shrieking giggle out of them by force. Her stomach ached and he was only on for two minutes and forty-nine seconds. By the time the special guest was introduced, an apathetic Whitney Cummings, Lydia had seen enough.

She slipped free as soon as the show was over. 

The air was cool only because she’d been sweating with group social anxiety. She stumbled out of the sex shop and immediately glanced to the parking lot. Sure enough, most of the comedians smoked by their cars. The opening comic blinked up at Finstock from behind his thick glasses. 

She squared her shoulders and her posture said she _wasn’t_ there to flirt, she wasn’t there to gush, and she only had eyes for Finstock. 

“Bobby Finstock?” He turned and he was everything she’d hoped. His hands no longer held a tremor and his eyes were sharp, haunted. “Do you have a moment for a quick word?” 

Finstock’s narrowed his eyes and his friend tilted his head to the side. 

“Like,” his friend squeaked out, “about God or something?” 

Lydia laughed, not as loud as she had inside, but enough to make her mascara smudge. 

“No. Business related.” Lydia bounced on the balls of her feet and watched Finstock swallow, still eyeing her like she was a wild animal. “There’s a Pho place down the street. My treat.” 

Finstock had been skinnier then. His friend gave him a slight shove and a quiet, “I’ll call you later, man.” He followed her and Lydia grinned. She took him to a hole-in-the-wall dive where the broth was sharp and the lights were dim to hide the grit on the floors. It was a place that had character, the same kind of character that shifted in the seat across from her. 

“You know, people say that when comedians go sober they lose that _edge_.” Lydia watched his lips pull back, his grin all pressure and blood. Lydia’s heart pounded in her chest and she didn’t move, didn’t _blink_. “Those kind of people have no imagination. They don’t know what it means to _come back_ from the dark.” 

Lydia only had two pairs of heels and a bag that she prayed her colleagues didn’t look too closely at to see that it was a knock-off. Her apartment was shitty and her nail polish was starting to chip on her left thumb. Yet she felt a thrill, watching Finstock watch her. 

“Is that who you’re supposed to be?” He rolled his eyes and sipped his broth. “Imaginative?” 

Lydia shrugged. 

“If it suits me.” She slid her business card out from her shirt sleeve and slid it across the table. Finstock took it. She watched his eyebrows jump up and Lydia’s legs tensed as she rejoiced. “I’m Lydia Martin. And I was wondering if you’re looking for representation.” 

The lights flickered in the Pho dive and Bobby Finstock swallowed, his thumb worrying the corner of Lydia’s card. When he smiled, she smiled with him. 

Years later Lydia stirred her olives idly in her martini, listening to her colleagues bitch and moan about deals. She swallowed a yawn and idly kicked her feet against tiles at the Club Bar at The Peninsula. Her phone pinged just as they began to split the check. A new picture from Finstock, with his face blurred because Stiles Stilinski was smearing glitter on Finstock’s cheeks with his fingers. 

“Well, it’s been fun, gentleman.” Lydia smiled and stood. “I’ll see you on Monday.”

Lydia gathered her purse and just as her fingers closed around her jacket, a discreet cough stopped her. A waiter hovered nearby, his eyes too wide to be alert. Lydia’s heart jumped in her chest and she squeezed the handles of her purse until the leather creaked. 

“Miss Martin?” Lydia nodded and the waiter sagged with relief. “There’s a gentleman who’d like to speak for you. He said it will be quick.” 

Lydia crossed her arms. 

“What kind of _gentleman_?” 

The waiter’s eyes darted around and he leaned forward, his breath tickling her cheek. 

“Deucalion Blackwood, miss.” 

Lydia was not easily flustered. She was no longer the girl who had to use her own bluster to cover-up her buzzing nerves. Her name made eyes widen. Her name made people move _faster_. Her name meant _business_. 

A name like Deucalion Blackwood made people like Lydia freeze on the spot. Reading his name in print sent a chill down her spine. When it was spoken aloud Lydia’s ears popped and the world went silent, the few moments of tranquility before gunfire. She pinched her arm to keep herself from sucking in air. 

“We wouldn’t want to keep Mr. Blackwood waiting.” Lydia smiled with more teeth than was considered polite. “Lead the way.” 

Predictably, Deucalion Blackwood was not in the general seating area at the Club Bar. The waiter led her to the Roof Garden, twisting past tables until they made their way to a private corner with a fire pit. It had a lovely overlook of Beverly Hills and the sky had just chased the last streaks of lavender to reveal satellites and the moon. Usually the space was used for parties of about a dozen people. Lydia had been to this particular corner several times with her colleagues. 

Deucalion Blackwood was the sole occupant. 

The waiter fled when Deucalion stood. He was dressed in a sleek navy suit, his cufflinks gleaming silver in the firelight. 

“Ah, Lydia,” Deucalion smiled as though they were old friends. “I’m so glad you accepted my invitation.” She took his hand and he immediately brought it up to his mouth to kiss it. “You look lovely, my dear.” 

Lydia startled, her hand jerking in his grip. Her knuckles bumped his lips roughly as she snorted. 

“How would you know?” 

Deucalion dropped her hand and smoothed this thumb over what had be a sharp ache on his lower lip. He winked. 

“Because I’m told you always look your best. Why should today be any different?” Deucalion ran his tongue over his bruised lip. “Sit down, please. Make yourself comfortable.” Lydia’s lips quirked up as she sat on a feathery cushion. She watched the city lights twinkle on one-by-one. “I’m sure that, like me, you detest wasting time,” Deucalion said lightly as his smile dropped from his face. It was such a quick change of expression that Lydia couldn’t hide her flinch. “Is Bobby Finstock actually sober?” 

Lydia had run through countless scenarios on the short walk it took to Deucalion’s reserved corner. She had all sorts of clients that he could have expressed interest in, and Finstock had not occurred to her. Her shock quickly froze over into a tundra of rage. She straightened her shoulders and when she spoke her words were clipped. 

“He is. Though I hardly see how that’s your business.” 

Deucalion’s pale eyes met hers, the light from the fire flickering over his face. 

“Comedians seem to fall in that trend of thinking they can be functional users, that without their vices they lose the spark that made them funny in the first place.” 

“That’s bullshit.” Deucalion’s eyes widened as Lydia clenched her fists. The muscle in her jaw tightened and she didn’t give a _damn_ what the Blind Music King had to say. “You can say that about any artist and you’d be wrong about the ones that are truly _great_. Their addiction doesn’t define them, but their recovery and will to overcome it _shapes them_ as a person and influences their work. There isn’t a magic drug or drink to make us funny.” Lydia’s hands shook and she sneered at him even though he wouldn’t get the pleasure of seeing her expression. “He’s actually going to be celebrating his ten year sobriety anniversary soon. Whether you believe the legitimacy of that is not my concern.” She yanked her bag into her hands and stood. “Have a good evening, Mr Blackwood—” 

She stood and was ready to leave and send out a massive text to her friends to see who was available for a last-minute rant/spa session. Deucalion’s hand shot out and firmly grasped her wrist. 

“Miss Martin.” Lydia pulled her arm away firmly and Deucalion let her go. “You’re protective of your clients… as am I, which is the only reason I asked such a question.” 

The fire crackled at Lydia’s back. Her cheeks were flushed and she let her shoulders slowly inch down. She sat next to Deucalion once more. Her heartbeat slowed back to a reasonable pace and she sighed. 

“Isaac Lahey is yours?” Finstock had mentioned a composer that Danny found who hung around set. According to Finstock, he was a lithe kid who swooned over sounds. Lydia hadn’t heard of Isaac and he wasn’t on IMDB. She assumed he was just another starving artist getting their chance to break into relevance. “I had no idea you represented him.”

Deucalion Blackwood’s name wasn’t one you’d want to hide, not if he was an ally. Isaac should be screaming Deucalion’s name from the rooftops. Deucalion smiled and in the flickering light from the fire he almost looked soft. 

“He’s something else. I haven’t met anyone like him before, he was just… I just so happened to be in Colorado and I heard this bumper on NPR. I’d never heard anything so organic… so beautiful in a completely unique way. Once I met him I knew I had to have him on my roster. The industry might not be ready for his music, but once the time is right they won’t know what hit them.” Deucalion grinned, slow and vicious. “ _The Last Trolley Stop_ could be that moment.” 

Lydia can’t help but think back to the uncomfortable chairs at the Pleasure Chest all those years ago, with the bright lights and gross beer. She thought of the large teeth and haunted eyes that surgically extracted laughter. 

“I know what you mean.” 

They shared a silence, Lydia watching sparks float up from the fire and Deucalion tapping his fingers quietly along the long stretch of his cane. 

“Finstock’s record was the only one with a blemish. I had to be certain. For the safety of my client.” Lydia hummed, the anger still too raw for her to speak. She stood once more, calmer and resigned. Deucalion held out his hand. She took it. “If this show goes well, I’m sure I’ll be seeing you again, my dear. It’s been a pleasure.” 

He squeezed her hand and, to Lydia’s relief, didn’t kiss her skin. 

::::

Bustling bodies ebbed and flowed along Sunset during Amoeba's sidewalk sale. Kira swayed with the tide of people, picking through DVDs with careful precision. Her eyes darted from her shared list on her phone with Danny to the rows and rows of DVDs. The air was warm and Kira idly wondered if she should stop by the theater while she was there. She pushed her hair out of her face and adjusted her sunglasses when a voice called out to her.

“Kira?” 

She turned and Bobby Finstock smiled wide at her from a few rows over. Kira moved before she thought about what she was doing. She ran and he opened his arms in time for her to hug him, hard and tight. The intoxicating mixture of surprise and elation was dizzying as Finstock lifted her a bit off the ground, her toes brushing his shins for a moment. 

Her mother used to say that Kira overthought things while her father said Kira simply didn’t trust the thoughts of others. When she was on set Kira liked to be strict in her personal professionalism. All touches were brief and she would not show outward favoritism, even to Danny and Peter.

“Bobby,” Kira slid from his arms. The weekends were her time for being tactile, which she usually got with Danny, Erica, Boyd, and Peter if he was free. She’d been so hungry for more she hadn’t thought twice about hugging Finstock. “Good afternoon.” 

She waited for it to be awkward, for him to raise an eyebrow at the affection that wasn’t earned. He nudged her shoulder. 

“Grab anything good?” 

Kira snorted. 

“ _Pluto Nash_ for seventy-five cents.” 

Bobby laughed, ragged and hoarse. 

“That’s seventy-five cents too much.” 

Kira expected it to be awkward, for Bobby to be with someone and have to depart, or maybe they’d realize that without _The Last Trolley Stop_ to guide them that they had nothing to talk about. Instead they scouted for bad movies together. Finstock crowed about _Hackers_ while Kira insisted he view _The Happening_. They elbowed each other to get their hands on _Shakma_ , much to the amusement of the girl behind the counter. 

“Are you busy today?” 

Finstock posed the question right as Kira took the picture of them together to send to Danny. 

“No.” She smiled. “It’s my lazy Saturday.” 

Finstock rolled his lower lip between his teeth, a nervous habit that Jetson loathed because it meant touch-ups. Kira saw herself reflected in Finstock’s shades. 

“Want to catch a movie while we’re here?” 

Kira’s weekdays were regimented and had a exhausting and strict schedule. Weekends were tinted with honey-gold. Waves of exhaustion were dashed against the pavement as Kira smiled. It was easy to argue over what movie to see, even easier to juggle giant sodas and popcorn while they settled in for an indie thriller. _Surely it shouldn’t be this easy_ , Kira thought hours later when the sky faded into blues and purples like a bruise. They sat on a table at In-N-Out and _it shouldn’t be this easy_. 

“Eh,” Finstock chowed down on animal fries and wiped his hands idly with a napkin. “I had to get out of my town.” His smile hardened into something brittle and Kira couldn’t look away as his eyes closed briefly before meeting hers. “It’s a small town but man… you had to get out. I hated seeing what it was doing to my brother, how he didn’t want to acknowledge all the different kind of places and people. I… if I stayed there I would be dead.” Finstock took a long sip of his milkshake. “And I’ve been here ever since.” 

There were no stars to be seen in the night sky. There was always the sound of traffic, sirens, and people. The lack of four seaons made it easy for time to slip away… and Kira wouldn’t have it any other way. They sipped their milkshakes and Kira leaned her shoulder against his for a moment. 

“It always had to be here. I’m the cliche case, you know, movies just kind of… ruined me for anything else.” Kira stretched out her legs, her red sneakers stark against the pavement. She grinned. “There was never another option.”

Finstock hummed, and he held up his milkshake. She knocked her against it. When he smiled it was crooked and joyous. 

“Thank fuck we’re out here.” 

Sometimes it really was that easy. Kira licked her lips and tasted strawberries and the buzzing anticipation from a new friend. She knocked her knee against his. 

“Thank fuck!” 

When she laughed it felt like they had a shared secret.

::::

Seventies soul music grooved out into the small, gated workspace in Erica and Boyd’s shared commune. It was too hot to wear anything more than shorts and a sports bra. Sweat clung to her body as she set up her canvas and paints. Boyd swayed with the music and had his mannequins set up in the yard and had spools of thread lined up neatly in his sewing bag. Danny hunched over in his stool and graphite stained his fingers as he sketched out more elaborate set and costume ideas. 

Purple and gold paint streaked just below Erica’s hip. She dragged her brush over the canvas and shivered as she brought Danny’s latest sketch to colorful life. 

When they’d been in school together Danny had been too razor-sharp. He was skinny, tall, and was recently out-and-proud. Seeing him calmer, more comfortable, made Erica smile. 

The music drew some neighbors around, well aware of Erica and Boyd’s Chill Sundays. Wine was had and all was merry. 

A tiny wrinkle formed between Danny’s eyebrows. 

Danny was a quiet man who only ever voiced his fears in private. Once the neighbors were gone and the sun and gone down, he finally set down his sketchbook. 

“I…” Danny sniffed and turned his head away to wipe his eyes. “I hope we get picked up for a second season.” 

Danny had bigger plans than children television, but he still wanted to complete his vision of what _The Last Trolley Stop_ was meant to be. Erica turned her canvas around. Boyd whistled. Danny’s breath caught loudly in his throat. 

Swaths of indigo framed shimmers of gold, violet, and emerald hues. It was a bigger set planned for the finale and it had a bunch of moving parts, Erica’s _favorite_ kind of design. She didn’t reassure Danny with empty promises and over-sugared anecdotes. She opened a bottle of wine and kept his glass full. 

“Whatever happens,” Boyd smiled at Erica as he slung his arm around Danny’s shoulders. _God_ she loved her husband _so much_. “It’s going to be a hell of a ride.” 

Danny’s grinned, watery, fierce, and bright. 

::::

Stiles kicked his shoes off into his sand along one several small beaches along the PCH. A few feet down a family splashed in the sunset stained waves. A seagull hovered by hoping for the promise of food. 

The smell of the ocean was calming. Stiles didn’t care if it was a cliche, sometimes things were cliched for a reason. 

He rolled grains of sand between his toes and laid against his backpack. The ocean was a reminder that _Stiles was here_ and that he’d made it _out_. Every push and pull of the tide was a reassuring whisper from a voice that sounded a lot like his mother. _You have a home here. You’re free, you’re free, you’re free._

Stiles called his dad, not bothering to check the time. The phone only rang twice. 

_“Hey, Stiles.”_

“Hey-o, pops.” Stiles stretched in the sand until his back cracked. “How’s it hangin’?” 

He listened to his father’s dry chuckle and weary exhale. It was a sound he’d heard a million times, when he’d sit down for dinner, when he got a call from the station on his day off, or when Stiles would come home with yet another black eye or busted lip. The familiarity of it hurt, knowing that it was a sound Stiles would never forget. Did his dad recall the sounds Stiles made? Did he want to remember them? Or did he want to…

_“Same old, same old. Mrs. Peterson asked about you when I went to the grocery store. Asked if you were famous yet.”_

Mrs. Peterson was a southern belle who prided herself on _tradition_ and _family values_. She hosted parties at the local church for high schoolers and had chaperoned every prom since 1982. After Stiles had landed the supporting role in _Brigadoon_ his sophomore year she’d pulled him aside with lacquered nails. _“Be careful with the theater,”_ her nails had dug into Stiles’s arm and he had to force himself to keep still as she pulled herself close to him, _“it attracts all types of degenerates. I’d hate to see the Sheriff’s boy lose his way.”_

When Stiles had finally been able to get away he had half-crescent bruises on his arm from her grip. 

“Not yet.” Stiles rolled his shoulders and didn’t care when sand got in his shirt. “Still working on it.” He paused, and then took a deep breath. He didn’t have to see his father to know that the Sheriff tensed. “Actually, I got a pretty cool gig. It might not go anywhere… but it’s actually really fun.” 

“ _Oh yeah?_ ” He could hear his dad’s smile and the squeaking ker- _whap_ of the back porch screen door opening and closing. The wood creaked and the Sheriff sat in the rocking chair that the local carpenter had gifted him for his fiftieth birthday. It was a deep, dark wood that groaned like a ship at sea. Their back porch faced the woods and dry patches of grass. Stiles was at the beach, so far away, but he knew his yard like the back of his hand. No amount of years away would remove it. _“Why don’t you tell me about it?”_

He’d heard that exact question many times before, mostly when Stiles had done well on yet another audition for the musical or school play. No matter what time it was or how long the day had been, the Sheriff always took the time to listen to what made his son so excited. 

Stiles swallowed and pushed the words past the lump in his throat. 

“Dad… it’s so great. It’s a kid’s show and everything is so _bright_ and _colorful_. And everyone is just so… on their A-game. Everyone wants to be their best,” Stiles closed his eyes, “because we want to _make_ the best.” 

He tells his dad about Danny’s quiet intensity, Kira’s sharp kindness, Finstock’s dark-as-night humor, Erica’s genius designs, Boyd’s nimble fingers, and…

Stiles glanced around. The family was gone. It was only him and the increasingly disinterested seagull. He cleared his throat. 

“Dad,” he heard his father shift in his rocking chair, “can you keep a secret?” 

“ _For you?_ ” His father’s tired smile traveled two-thousand miles just to make Stiles’s chest tighten. “ _Sure can_.”

Stiles gripped his phone so tight he could hear the plastic creak. 

“My co-star is Peter Hale.” 

Stunned silence stretched across four heartbeats. The night wind shot across the beach as his dad’s breath punched out of his lungs.

_“You’re kiddin’!”_

Stiles laughed. 

“I’m not, dad.”

His father whistled and the rocking chair creaked. Stiles rested his elbows on his knees and pulled his socks on. He shook the sand out of his shoes. 

_“Well don’t just leave it at that!”_ His father grumbled, _“what’s he like?”_

Stiles paused, shoelaces gripped in his hand. 

Peter Hale… there were so many things Stiles could say. The things that people already knew, how hard he worked and how meticulous every line was delivered. He was intimidating from a distance, terrifying when you got close. He enjoyed life’s luxuries when he had the time to truly savor them. 

Most people didn’t know that when Peter laughed, _really_ laughed at something he didn’t expect to tickle him, he snorted. He snorted, would get embarrassed but it would only make him laugh harder and snort louder. It killed Finstock when he managed to make Peter do it. They both fell over each other wheezing. 

Peter liked his coffee black when he made it at home, but whenever he went out he’d get the most complicated thing they offered just for the hell of it. He had an effortless facade of constant disinterest but he paid attention to _everything_ and studied _everyone_. Stiles didn’t even _remember_ speaking about his favorite foods, but when a PA had asked him Peter answered for him without looking up from his book. 

In the mornings when Peter was the first one awake, he would bite Stiles’s shoulder and chew like a _weirdo_ to get Stiles to wake up. 

“He’s…” Stiles swallowed hard. It’s not as if Stiles could just go, _He’s great dad, we’re in a casual, sexual relationship. I’ve never really done that before and I was wondering if you had any advice on how not to get too attached?_ That would go over just swell. His dad would probably have a heart attack in his rocking chair. Stiles hugged his arm around his middle. “He’s funny. He’s funny even when he doesn’t mean to be. He’s great with kids and he’ll deny it until the cows come home but they love him. I think it’s because he never talks down to them, you know? He’s always treating them like adults.” Stiles got up and dusted the sand off his pants. “He’s a man of many talents.” 

Predictably his dad ate it up and Stiles still got teary-eyed when his dad drawled, _“I’m proud of you, Stiles,”_ as his departure. He stared out over the dark waves and snapped a picture. He sent it to Peter. The response was immediate. 

_Pretty. Want to stop by for coffee?_

Stiles smiled. He kicked off the last of the remaining sand before he jogged back to his Jeep.

::::

Peter wasn’t one to speak out of turn… but he _knew_ Kira Yukimura. She yawned during their lunch break, the bags under her eyes growing darker. 

“You need sleep.” 

Kira rolled her eyes. 

“No shit.” 

People tended to take one look at Kira and write her off as an angel and she certainly looked the part. But Peter knew better, he knew how her use of expletives increased only in the presence of her friends. Every _fuck, shit,_ and _asshole_ made Peter’s heart squeeze to know that she trusted him. She leaned against him briefly as Finstock sauntered up. He tossed her a bottle of cranberry juice and slid next to her, their knees bumping together. 

“How are you feeling?”

Kira shoved Finstock’s shoulder. Peter’s eyes widened at the physical contact while they were working. 

“Fucking exhausted,” and Peter had to make sure his jaw didn’t drop as Kira scrubbed at her face. “I feel like inside-out dog shit.” 

Finstock laughed. 

“Yeah, but isn’t inside-out dog shit the same as regular dog shit?” 

Kira giggled and Peter felt like he was hallucinating. He didn’t _mind_ Finstock, but apparently Kira had immensely enjoyed spending the occasional weekend with the comedian. It must have been quite the time for her to be swearing around him already. 

Danny shouted across the courtyard. 

“Kira, I need your eyes!” 

Kira stood instantly, slipping back into professional in one smooth motion. She jogged away and Peter watched Finstock’s smile as the man’s eyes followed her. 

“Finstock,” Peter didn’t _have_ to make his voice sharp but it did satisfy a deep part of him to see the man flinch. “What are you doing on Sunday?” 

“Uh,” Finstock blinked. “Probably sleeping in from my gig on Saturday. Why?” 

“Because you’ll be spending it with me,” Peter smirked at Finstock’s wide eyes. “Bright and early.” 

A few days later Peter’s car idled outside of Finstock’s apartment. He was a few moments away from honking despite the early hour when the gate opened and Finstock fell out. His eyes were barely open as he slumped his way to Peter’s car. He scratched idly at a hole in his jeans. 

“Please tell me you brought coffee.” 

Peter snorted. 

“You won’t need it.” 

Peter stepped on the gas pedal to accentuate the high-pitched whine that crawled out of Finstock’s mouth. Though the drive wasn’t long Peter still needed to shake Finstock awake once they’d arrived. Finstock grunted and rubbed at his eyes to squint at the building. 

“Wi Spa?” Finstock raised an eyebrow at Peter. “You took me to Korea Town?” 

“If we’re going to be working together we should get to know each other,” Peter said with a slick smile that Finstock didn’t believe for a second. “My treat.” 

_It’s not an interrogation_ , Peter reasoned, _it’s extending an olive branch._

Growing up among the Hale elites had hardened Peter’s skin into stone and sharpened his teeth into sabers. Peter was skilled in getting people to chase his words in circles. He never smiled for someone who didn’t earn it and empty pleasantries were pointless. He wore his armor with pride, he didn’t hide his ability to pick a person apart with just a few glances. 

Kira… Kira was a different animal. 

He’d worried that he’d grow irritated by her never-ending smiles and easygoing laughter. In most people that kind of behavior rubbed him the wrong way and struck him as forced and fake. It was easy to spot the cracks, how a person’s eyes wouldn’t crinkle and light up with their smiles and the brief but severe downturned lips before loud laughter— Peter knew how to spot hidden misery. 

Kira was _warm_. Any display of affection was always with purpose and never easily given. Though she smiled often, she had a great reason. 

_“Not everyone can be a smirking swashbuckler all the time, Peter.”_ Kira had laughed and leaned her head on his shoulder when she’d finally freed herself of that awful sitcom. He took her out for drinks and they talked until the bar closed. _“It’s easier to catch flies with honey. Who doesn’t like a smile?”_ She asked the empty parking lot. _“Besides… if anyone tried to talk shit, they’d look crazy. No one would believe them.”_

When she grinned Peter saw that she wasn’t as soft and cuddly as she painted herself. He saw a woman who knew she wouldn’t win through brute force, so she sharpened her sword and waited for others to impale themselves. 

Peter simply adored her. 

“Don’t be alarmed,” Finstock grunted as he undid his belt, “but I lost a testicle to exposure.” 

Peter pointedly didn’t _stare_ and undressed with the same indifference as Finstock. He rolled his shoulders and neck. Finstock winked and Peter felt the electric thrill gather at his knuckles. Finstock smiled like he knew he was being tested. Peter smiled because that just made it all the more fun. 

“Exposure… sounds like there’s a story behind that.” 

Finstock snorted. 

“Come to one of my stand-up shows and maybe you’ll hear it.” 

The first step was the hot room to sweat all the toxins out of their body and for Peter to probe Finstock with questions. He’d never spent time with a comedian. The ones he constantly saw on television seemed to be full of misogynistic and homophobic jokes that seemed incredibly dated and not at all clever. 

“Well yeah,” Finstock’s chest shone as he wiped sweat from his eyes, “you’re always going to get tools like that. People who don’t really know how to adapt with the times because they’re afraid or just not as talented as everyone was led to believe. But more people are noticing and so the comedy scene is changing. Comedy is…” Finstock sighed and let his head fall back against wood wall. “It’s weird. It’s uncomfortable. It’s hard and it’s scary how fast humor can evolve and change, but that’s also _thrilling_ , you know? To track what styles rise and fall.” 

Peter nudged Finstock’s leg with his foot. 

“That’s a romantic way of looking at it.” 

“Is it?” Finstock shrugged and rose to follow Peter to the cold baths. “I just love it. There’s nothing else I’d rather be doing.” Those words were familiar and momentarily struck Peter speechless. Finstock took the first step into the ice cold bath and yelped. “ _Christ_!” His legs locked. He twisted to glare at Peter’s smirk. “This is insane.” 

Peter’s crooked smile widened.

“It’s good for you. You’re releasing the toxins in your body.” 

Finstock narrowed his eyes. 

“I can’t tell if you are just really into skin care… or if you hate me.” 

Peter rolled his eyes. 

“I don’t hate you.” 

“Sure,” Finstock said with a disbelieving lilt. He shivered on the first step of the pool. “How did you meet Kira?” 

Peter shrugged, forcing his body to keep its uncaring posture. 

“We both just happened to be in the right place at the right time.” 

Finstock shook his head at the purposely vague answer. He turned back around and dipped his other foot in with a hiss. 

“She’s something else,” Finstock said with his back to Peter. “I mean… it’s incredible, she’s always moving, always smiling, always thinking miles ahead with the answers. I don’t know how she does it… just watching her is crazy.” 

Peter quickly checked to make sure that the attendants weren’t paying attention. 

“It’s not that hard to believe,” Peter raised his hands, “not once you get to know her.” 

He shoved Finstock into the icy waters. Finstock squawked and Peter grinned and strode into the waters, breathing through the way it made his lungs freeze. Finstock burst out of the water and shook his head, sending water flying everywhere. He spit out water and sent a withering glare in Peter’s direction. 

“Oh my God,” he sucked in air like a fish in a desert, “you _asshole_.” 

Peter ducked under the water quickly before he moved back towards the stairs. 

“Come on, we don’t have to stay in the cold long. Exfoliation comes next.” 

Kira might have been cunning, but she still believed the best in people until they let her down. Peter thought the worst of everyone until they proved him wrong. Working with Finstock had been… surprisingly pleasant. Peter had heard the stereotypes that surrounded comedians. The stories about a constant need for validation and attention that could bring a production to its knees. Finstock certainly loved to laugh and make others laugh, but his ego wasn’t fragile. Stiles _loved_ him and Peter couldn’t help but laugh when Stiles had followed Finstock like a puppy the first few weeks, eager to know more about comedy. 

Still, if Kira trusted Finstock enough to swear… he had to be sure. 

Finstock shrieked when a man scrubbed away layers of dead skin. Peter had purposely kept quiet while he’d gone first to build Finstock’s false sense of security. There were ways to drag the truth out of people, and the magic moments between pain and relief were excellent windows. It wasn’t torture. It was a spa day. 

“You’re a _sadist_ ,” Finstock’s knuckles were white as he gripped the table. “What did I _do_ to you, Peter?” 

“Nothing.” Peter smiled when the procedure was finished. Finstock trembled but the relief at the pain coming to an end was palpable. “You look great. Come on, now it’s time to relax.” 

Finstock still followed, still let himself get dressed in the provided common area clothes and they went to the clay sauna where they sank into the heated clay balls that covered the floor. Finstock’s breath eased out of him. 

“This…” Finstock’s voice finally reached the vulnerable and sleepy point that Peter had been waiting for, “this is nice.” 

Peter hummed and let silence wash over them for a few brief moments. 

“You’re doing well on the show.” 

The clay balls jostled when Finstock let out a raspy laugh. 

“Thanks.” Finstock breathed deep. “I see what Danny’s doing. Using color as a means of expression, so I’m the character that represents repression for others and myself. It’s important. I… I was worried, actually,” and Peter turned because Finstock’s voice wavered, “going up against you. It’s scary. You like… actually know what you’re doing.” Peter’s throat tightened, to his annoyance. Finstock cracked an eye open to stare at Peter, his smile world-weary. “It’s important, you know? Letting kids know that expression isn’t something to be afraid of. It’s uh,” Finstock had to take a moment to catch his breath, “it’s why I left home. I just couldn’t take it anymore.” 

Peter swallowed around the uncomfortable lump in his throat. 

“You’re not acting against me,” Peter tossed a small clay pebble at Finstock’s face, “you’re acting _with_ me.” 

By the time they left the sun was high in the sky and their skin glowed. Peter got into his car and Finstock fiddled with the radio. 

“You know,” Finstock said with a grin, “this means you have to come to one of my stand-up shows.” 

Peter smirked as he pulled out onto the road. 

“We’ll see.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahhh I think I'm going to be making a post on tumblr about this story and the inspirations about this. I've lifted the stand-up venue and routines from what I've seen and my post will cover that. This is one of my favorite stories guys... and I really hope you like it too. 
> 
> Please let me know what you think, good or bad or neutral. I'm ready to hear it all. 
> 
> my tumblr: mia6363.tumblr.com


	4. Wrap on Season One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Thank you so much, from the bottom of our hearts, for watching our show. Remember to see the color in everything. We’ll see you soon.”

Danny Mahealani never had another option when it came to careers. There was no “Plan B” and he knew exactly when his life had been ruined for anything else. 

He was four years old. He sat on the shag carpet in his living room and clutched a pillow close to his chest, tears running down his cheeks as John Williams’s impeccable score pulled quiet sobs from him. He hadn’t _felt_ so much from a film before in his life. He didn’t know how powerful they could be, he didn’t know how all of the pieces coming together could make his skin break out into goosebumps and his mouth fall open in awe. He had no idea such things were possible until his parents popped in a VHS of _E.T. the Extra Terrestrial_ for what they thought would be just another movie night. 

The movie’s score swelled with a timpani drum leading the percussion… and then the camera moved. 

Danny remembered how he gasped because the lens captured the image of a man. His baseball cap covered wavy, wild hair and his glasses were rectangular and thick. He was not a character in the film, but the other characters seemed comfortable around this man. He smiled, and said, “Cut!” 

“Who was that?” Danny pointed at their television and twisted around as the credits rolled. His cheeks were still wet with tears. “Who was that man?” 

His mom wiped his cheeks. 

“That’s the director, sweetheart.” 

“What’s a director?” 

“He’s the man who made the movie.” 

With that answer, any hope of having a normal life was over. Danny turned back to the screen, wiping his eyes, and thought _I want to be a director_.

Years later, Danny felt the same raw, alarming ache in his chest on the final day of shooting _The Last Trolley Stop_. He didn’t eat, he had a feeling he wouldn’t be able to keep anything down if he tried. Nervous energy crackled on set and everyone was giving it their all. This could be the last time they all worked together. 

The show might not be picked up for a second season. 

Danny swallowed acidic anxiety and cleared his throat. The crew fell silent, all the clicks and twists of cameras and tripods coming to a halt as they turned to look at him. Finstock, Stiles, and Peter stepped off the stage, alert and ready. Erica held yards of cloth in her hands while Boyd held a sewing needle between his teeth. Isaac kept his phone recording. Kira’s hand was a cool, grounding comfort on Danny’s arm. He took a calm, deep breath. 

“I’d like to do something different today.” Technically they were done, but Danny had talked to Kira about the last credit sequence. He knew the crew was tired, physically and emotionally, but there was one more thing left to do. “When I was four my parents had a special edition of the _E.T._ where at the end you see Spielberg make the final shot of the movie. I wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for that moment.” 

He didn’t want a direct clone of that shot. He wanted to use Isaac’s footage to show _every aspect_ of the crew, from the ADs to the interns. It wasn’t just one man behind this project, it was all of their breath, movement, and ideas that came together to form this one, colorful moment of children’s television. 

Isaac had a steady hand, recording as the set was broken down, interns and PAs running to wrap up cords and racks to hang the costumes. He showed Erica and Boyd gently help Stiles and Peter out of the top layer of their costumes while Jetson wiped the grey paint off Finstock’s face. Moving away from the stage, Isaac ended with a sweep over the camera operators, Kira with the script in her hand, a headset, and keen eyes on the stage with Danny at her side. 

With the one center camera still live, Danny directed the AD. _I’d like to show everyone the moving parts._

“Stiles, Peter, Finstock,” Danny motioned to the center of the stage, “you will take front and center as the stars—”

“No.” Peter rolled his eyes, his hair frizzy. “Absolutely not, you and Kira will be at the center. We’ll take either side.” 

Danny nodded, his throat tight as he pulled Kira up onto the stage. She pulled her headset off so it hung around her neck. Danny and Kira stood at the center, with Stiles, Peter, and Isaac on Danny’s side. Finstock, Erica, and Boyd were on Kira’s side. Danny slipped his hands into Kira’s and faced the camera. 

“I’m Danny Mahealani, creator of _The Last Trolley Stop_.” 

He squeezed Kira’s hand. She grinned and bowed her head. 

“And I’m Kira Yukimura, line-producer of The Last Trolley Stop.” 

Danny thought back to the feeling of sitting numb, moved beyond words and comprehensive feeling at four years old on his living room floor. He worried that maybe this was a wildly arrogant move… but he gripped Kira’s hand and took a deep breath. 

“Thank you so much, from the bottom of our hearts, for watching our show. Remember to see the color in everything. We’ll see you soon.” 

He led them in a bow, all of them hand-in-hand. The crew joined them and the camera captured them bowing and devolving into high-fives and hugs. Danny struggled to breathe, his eyes stinging with pride and bewildered joy as they wrapped the first season of _The Last Trolley Stop_. 

::::

The cast party was held immediately after the last cord and camera were put away… and the location was the Jim Henson Studios’ parking lot. Kira had brought a cooler filled with soda and juice boxes. Isaac had an iPod dock where he let his “chill” playlist gently float through the lot. 

Kira was light-headed, all the stress of _production_ suddenly alleviated. Tomorrow the new routine of _post-production_ would weigh her down… but for now she basked in the euphoria of the cast and crew. Her arms trembled and she pulled off her sweater and lounged in the Boyd’s truck bed. 

Her legs hung over the side as she rested her head on the edge of the truck. She listened as Danny regaled PAs and interns with stories from the hellish sitcom where they first met. She met Peter’s eyes and he winked. She smiled and hoped that even as time passed and eroded her memory… that this night would be the last to leave her mind. 

The truck dipped and Kira turned to see Finstock pull himself up next to her. He held out a juice-box.

Endless waves of words pressed against Kira’s lips. She wanted to tell him that she knew he was perfect from the first few seconds of his audition. She wanted to tell him that if he wanted to pursue a career in acting she thought he would flourish. Already, Kira’s brain was thinking of people she could call, directions she could push him to give him more work. Every time she looked at him she felt a growing thrill, as though she had unearthed a beautiful, rough and rare gem from the earth. Soon, she knew, the world would be captivated by him… but for right now at that moment… he was theirs.

Instead, Kira swallowed and said, “Hey.” 

Finstock knocked his juicebox against hers. 

“Cheers. To a great show.” 

He smiled, crooked and all teeth that made his eyes crinkle at the sides. Kira returned it easily, without thinking at all. She knocked her knee against his. 

“Uh, try the _best_ show, asshole.” Kira watched his eyes widen a bit before he snorted, his cheeks flushing pink. She understood laughter’s addiction. Just having his shoulder shake against hers, his hand a warm weight on her shoulder as he caught his breath, was exhilarating. He leaned against her for a moment. Kira knocked their knuckles together softly when he caught his breath. “Thank you.” 

Conversations shifted and Kira found herself telling stories to a rapturous audience. It wasn’t about wisdom, but about sharing experiences. Soon they’d reigned in their sprawl from the parking lot to around a select few cars. Pizza was ordered and Kira’s voice was hoarse by the time a long silence bloomed among the cast and crew. 

She drew in a delicate breath that hitched loud enough to make everyone’s eyes lock on her. 

“I know,” her lower lip wobbled and Kira sucked in air to try and compensate for how her hands trembled, “I know it’s bad luck to say, but I do hope we are picked up for a second season.” She shook with restraint because being a woman as well as a _woman of color_ in their industry put certain expectations on her shoulders. Being emotional as in _too emotional_ was an unwritten taboo. She forced her breathing to remain consistent as she smiled. “I’m gonna miss you guys.” 

A stray tear slipped off her fluttering lashes. She didn’t move to wipe it away or hide her face. In a matter of moments she was overwhelmed with embraces, she couldn’t tell who was first, only that Peter was the last. His stubble was familiar and rough against her cheek. He squeezed her tight enough to press the air from her lungs, tight enough so she could hide her face in his shoulder. 

She felt his heartbeat press against her chest and she knew that it wasn’t over. Even if _The Last Trolley Stop_ ended up being a blip on television, they’d keep moving forward. He eased her out of his arms with a warm smile. 

“We’ll have a group-text from hell.” 

“Yeah.” Kira breathed and it was easier. She cleared her throat. “Exactly.” She elevated her voice, addressing everyone. “Please, keep in contact. I’m happy to help you hop onto the next job, and hell, maybe we’ll even run into each other.” 

From across the lot Danny raised his juice-box like it was a champagne flute. 

Kira’s heart thudded in her chest as time slowed to a syrupy lull. With every _ba-bum_ of ventricles pushing blood through her circulatory system she thought of how each and every one of them arrived at this point. She thought of leaping at the chance to be a PA at the hellish sitcom, Peter taking a lame action-movie job that required a lot of ADR, and Finstock using his nephew’s iPad to film what he thought was a long-shot audition. 

They had all performed an elaborate, sometimes agonizing dance to end up sweaty and breathless in the Jim Henson Studios’ parking lot. 

One by one the crew dissipated until it was just Kira, Peter, and Danny dumping out ice water into the shrubbery. The sun had set long ago and Kira’s stomach was heavy with pizza, juice, and wistfulness. She thought back to when she was young, how she’d felt so alone and the future was dreary and uncertain. 

Uncertainty remained… yet the dread that had plagued her as a child was gone. It was replaced with Danny’s head on her her shoulder and Peter’s arm around her waist. She wasn’t alone anymore. 

Kira didn’t make empty promises that they’d all be back in that parking lot months later to film season two. She didn’t say that they’d all work together again, and she didn’t say that this was the beginning of something incredible. She kept herself grounded and said nothing. She squeezed Danny’s hand and turned to Peter. 

His grin matched hers. _I have a feeling we’ll be just fine._

:::: 

The end of production on _The Last Trolley Stop_ felt like coming up for air after nearly drowning. 

It was scary, everything was bright, unknown, and new. The world was suddenly loud but Isaac could _breathe_ and it was time to _work_. 

Isaac received the final cuts of the first few episodes and he started drafting up music samples for Danny and Kira to go over. 

Not many composers ever spent time on set. It wasn’t typical routine, but nothing about Danny and _The Last Trolley Stop_ struck Isaac as typical. Isaac was entranced every time he slipped his microphone along the set to capture the low murmur of conversations, new inside jokes, and the frantic movement to get things running. He hung around the sound engineers, willing to lend a hand to get a good balance and test feedback, but most of the time…

Most of the time Isaac had floated like a dandelion puff on the wind. He let the sound guide him, from curt, direct commands from the PAs to the soft whispers of the makeup department as they put on finishing touches. So many people from so many different backgrounds, and yet when they came together they produced a symphony unlike anything Isaac had ever heard. 

He’d gotten used to being submerged in their entropy that when he was finally released to _do his job,_ he was adrift. Silence was no longer a relief. It was frightening and Isaac desperately cut his recordings together to try and recapture what he’d felt. Dizzying mania gripped him as he isolated inhales, whirs from cameras, and the _snap_ of everyone getting ready to hit their marks. He cut together the sounds and played it over the colorful clips and—

It was awful. 

“Oh my God.” Isaac didn’t know how long he’d been down in the studio, only that his face was slick with sweat and oil, his hands shook from stale coffee, and what he’d thought was a masterpiece… was repulsive. His breath burned in his chest as it caught, stumbled, and bloodied its knees on the ground. “ _Oh my God_.” 

Isaac wasn’t sure how long he sat there, his palms pressed to his eyes as he doubled over in embarrassment. Danny had so much _belief_ in him and Isaac had thought he’d be able to live up to those beliefs and _exceed_ them. 

Thin, cold fingers removed Isaac’s hands from his eyes. He blinked and saw Jadis’s frowning face. His stomach lurched and he made a series of noises that made Jadis withdraw her hands. 

“Are you going to throw up?” Isaac thought about it and shook his head. “Are you sure?” He nodded. Jadis pushed her hair out of her face, her forehead wrinkled. It was the only time Isaac had ever seen her look flustered. “Come on.” Jadis pulled Isaac to his feet. “You need a hot meal and a hotter shower.” 

Her grip on his hand was tight and Isaac was grateful that she had no problem directing him. He was good at commands. _Drink this. Breathe deep. Look at me. Eat this. Put on your seatbelt._ She powered down his station and packed up his things with calm, quiet efficiency. 

Jadis had a white Prius with busted air conditioning. They had all the windows down and she handed him her iPod classic. 

“You control the music. Traffic is going to be a nightmare.” 

As expected, Jadis’s music tastes were wide and expansive. Going through her collection helped his skin feel less sticky and too-tight. She hummed along to the music and when Isaac finally looked up he saw that they were headed to the Malibu Mountains. He swallowed. 

“Am I fired?” 

Jadis rolled her eyes. 

“No.” Her eyes briefly left the road to meet Isaac’s. “Deuc had a feeling that you were overworked. He had me check up on you.” She sighed and they hit another light. “He was right. As usual.”

Deucalion lived in a house deep in the Malibu. It was at the end of long, winding roads and had large, glass windows that overlooked the hills that eventually flattened into a glittering sea. It let in a beautiful view that Deucalion could never savor. Jadis rolled her Prius to a stop on the cobblestone parking area. When they got out of the car a strong wind blew their hair back. 

If Isaac closed his eyes he imagined he could smell the ocean. 

Jadis only had to knock on the door once before Deucalion opened it. He was dressed in ratty jeans and a sweater, his feet bare on his doorway. Jadis’s eyes widened in shock at seeing him so casually clothed for a moment before she cleared her throat. 

“You were right, Deuc.” 

“Of course I was right.” Deucalion grinned though even Isaac could see it was tight. He reached for Isaac and the tension in his smile lessened when his fingers closed around Isaac’s wrist. “My clothes will be big on you but you’ll have to deal with it.” He welcomed Isaac inside. Isaac made his way in the house while Deucalion remained outside for a moment, “Jadis,” his assistant straightened, her eyes practiced in their indifference. “Thank you.”

Isaac had only been to Deucalion’s house a handful of times. Deucalion, as warm and friendly as he could be, valued his privacy. According to Jadis, Isaac was the one person who’d been inside his house the most. He carefully placed his sneakers on the guest shoe-rack. Deucalion closed the door and Isaac heard Jadis pull out of the driveway. 

He tapped Isaac’s shoulder, soft and brief. Isaac followed him to the master bathroom. 

Deucalion started warm water in his sunken bath. When Isaac ventured into the bathroom Deucalion turned, holding both his hands out. 

“Give me your clothes.” Isaac hesitated only for a moment before he peeled off his shirt and jeans. Deucalion wrinkled his nose when Isaac bashfully placed them in his hands. “Take a long bath, I’ll start the wash and make some dinner.” He held Isaac’s clothes to his chest with one hand so he could reach out to ruffle Isaac’s hair with the other. The contact made Isaac’s eyes flutter shut. “I usually like it when people work themselves to the bone for me… but not in your case.” 

The bath was black marble that somehow felt soft as Isaac sank into it. He dipped beneath the water until he was fully submerged. 

He didn’t like the panic that had settled in his chest. It had been so long since he’d experienced the gnawing fear that he’d _lost_ something he’d loved. That music had slipped out of his hands and—

_— vinyl shattered against the tile as his father dragged Isaac into the yard, slurred promises of, “you will never have music again, boy, you hear me?” and Isaac cried and cried but the neighbors just shut their blinds and turned away. Something about music scared Isaac’s father, his back bristling like a cat. Isaac’s nose was broken and he could barely breathe. “No more of that shit in this house,” and on and on. His fingers closed around a shard of his mother’s record of_ West Side Story, _and refused to let go_. 

Sondheim played softly when Isaac came up for air. He splashed water onto his face. He was safe. His nose wasn’t broken. He had music. He would _always_ have music. 

Clothes waited for him, folded on the vanity sink. Isaac toweled off and pulled on the baggy, heavenly soft pajamas. 

Deucalion’s house was nothing like his office. His office was an ice kingdom, every piece of furniture and artwork was cold and sharp, like it was in a museum in another galaxy. His home… his home had weathered floors. The chairs and couches were warm, and felt like the kind of home Isaac always wanted. 

The kitchen was small, cozy. Deucalion was barefoot and sat on a stool. Isaac didn’t go for the food. Not when Deucalion opened his arms. 

“Feel better?” Isaac nodded into Deucalion’s shoulder. Deucalion’s arms weren’t suffocating or bruising. It had been years, really, Isaac should _know_ that not all touches were bad… but it still took him by surprise. “Good. I’ve made risotto.” 

Deucalion’s smile was gentler when he was in his home. They ate and listened to Bernstein and Sondheim in the living room. Their plates sat on the table and days worth of anxiety-laced mania faded away into heavy exhaustion. The long stretches of windows were filled with the indigo sky. Tiny lights from cars driving the winding roads below twinkled in the dark. 

“After my mom died… my dad hated all music. I never found out what set him off,” Isaac rarely made sense of his father’s rages, “but one day he just… he destroyed all of her records. Every piece of music in the house.” The thing about music is that it’s never truly gone. Isaac’s father might have destroyed the physical pieces, but music had a way of lingering. Isaac taught himself to listen for it in everything. In the way water gurgled down the drain, the sound of strong winds against sheets, or sharp hiss of blinds being drawn. Deucalion’s fingers gently touched the worry lines on Isaac’s forehead, skimming down his eyelashes and catching on his wet cheeks. “I couldn’t get a feel for what _The Last Trolley Stop_ needed and,” Isaac’s breath hitched and Deucalion’s fingers felt every patch of heat and grief in Isaac’s cheeks. “It felt like that day again. Like I thought… I thought I’d lost music forever.” 

Of course Isaac knew that wasn’t true. Of _course_. Music was eternal. Music was… everywhere. 

But when his clumsy fingers and overreaching mind kept _fumbling_ just for a simple melody, it was as though he’d been flung back into his yard, his father’s knuckles fresh off his nose, his eyes refusing to focus on his mother’s music collection in pieces around them. It was _stupid_ and _unprofessional_. 

Deucalion pinched Isaac’s nose.

“You might not believe me, but I promise that I understand.” His thumbs wiped away the stray tears and Deucalion smiled. “Music will always be with you, Isaac.” 

“Y-Yeah.” Isaac nodded, his cheeks reddening. “I know.” 

Deucalion took his hands away from Isaac’s face and stood with grace. 

“Get some sleep. When you wake up you will feel refreshed and,” Deucalion lingered, his eyes drawn to the windows as if he could appreciate the view, “I think you’ll be surprised at how fast the music will come to you.” 

Deucalion had a habit of being right, and that night was no different. 

::::

Peter went over his travel essentials for the fifth time as Stiles fidgeted on the bed. 

“Are you _sure_ I can’t help?” Peter zipped up his third and final suitcase. He dragged them to the door as Stiles sighed. “I hate sitting here.” 

“I’m the only one who can pack for me.” Peter straightened and dusted off his knees. “You’re keeping me company, Stiles.” 

He went over it all _again_ , his flight was in nine hours and once he was in Bruges he wouldn’t be able to have anything sent to him. The familiar buzz of anxiety that always arrived when it came to travel was maddening… only this time Stiles was there to soothe the nervous prickling with dramatic complaints. He flopped back against the pillows. 

“Being done with production is weird.” Peter turned to watch Stiles idly tug at the hem of his shirt, his fingers scratching his stomach. “Do you think we’ll get picked up for a second season?” 

Peter slowed, all thoughts of travel gone once he heard the delicate, curious, and wistful tone in Stiles’s voice. Sometimes he forgot how _young_ Stiles was, how new everything was to him. He was so good at projecting confidence with hints of an old soul that moments of vulnerability took Peter by surprise. He’d been young once too. He heard what Stiles wasn’t saying. He could read the words he kept silent in the soft smile in his voice and his twitching fingers. 

_Wasn’t it fun? I wish we could keep going, I want to keep going. I’m going to miss them._

_I’m… going to miss you._

Peter swallowed to keep his throat from tightening any further. He knew what it was like to first come down from the high of a tight-knit production group. It was easy to slip into a spiral of nostalgia, wishing and yearning for that camaraderie again. Peter prided himself on his dedication to his career. There was a time and a place for sentiment, and sentiment didn’t get contracts signed and roles booked. 

Quietly, Peter allowed himself to think, _it was fun, wasn’t it?_

“Hard to tell.” Peter left that kind of speculation to ratings and the trades. “Some friendly advice,” Peter purred as he crawled onto the bed, “is to not linger too much waiting for updates. Always focus on the next job.” 

Even as Stiles’s mouth tightened for a moment, his pupils still blew open wide. Peter straddled him lazily like they had all the time in the world. Stiles licked his lips. 

“Right. Sure.” 

“Trust me,” Peter squeezed Stiles’s hands. “You’ll feel better once you’re on the next job.” 

Stiles still couldn’t hide the look of _loss_. It had been a week since their tiny wrap party in the parking lot. Peter also felt the familiar ache in his own chest. It was like going from a full sprint to nothing. Suddenly he didn’t have to wake up early, get prepared for a morning of make-up, and working hours on end with children. 

It should have been a relief to be able to sleep in… but it also meant that Peter didn’t get to whisper sly jokes to Kira, give Stiles breathing and posture tips, or get into footsie-fights with Finstock on their lunch breaks. It went from overwhelming noise and movement to silence and absolutely stillness. He’d be lying if he didn’t say that this project didn’t hit harder than the rest. 

He’d be lying if he said he didn’t care if _The Last Trolley Stop_ was picked up for a second season. 

Peter pulled his shirt up and over his head, forcing his mind off it. 

“If it does get picked up and, for some reason, becomes very popular, I’d go through any online presence you have and make sure you wouldn’t mind the world seeing it.” Peter watched Stiles nod, his eyes roaming over Peter’s body in a way that made Peter puff out his chest, just a little. “Anything you’re not comfortable addressing publicly, delete it.” 

He should he harsher. He should raise his voice and insist that Stiles move on. Instead he kissed him, biting at his lips and told himself that he trembled because he was nervous about his flight, not because Stiles moaned. He bit down Stiles’s neck and chest and they clumsily undressed, aggression making their fingers bump together painfully. 

Stiles arched beautifully beneath him as Peter growled against his thigh. He twisted his fingers and his heart thudded in his chest when Stiles ground his hips down, his lips bitten and bruised. 

“Come on,” Stiles grinned and his teeth glimmered in the moonlight. “Fuck me.” 

Peter obeyed. He fucked Stiles harder than they had before. They never discussed other partners or if they’d keep in touch during Peter’s overseas shoot. It was easier to just keep it physical. Peter knew this. Stiles was closeted, thankfully not the kind that used homophobia as a shield, but the intention to _remain_ unseen was clear. 

They didn’t talk about where they came from. It was easier that way.

Stiles came with a sob that scraped his teeth against Peter’s shoulder. 

The bite mark throbbed all the way to the airport. He yawned in security and rocked on his heels as a tired family passed through the metal detector. He touched the tender skin on his neck and smiled. 

::::

Los Angeles had a strange way of making time seem endless and cruelly quick. The weather had its subtle changes, but comparing it to Alabama seasons made it seem mellow. Stiles did a few commercials and took a class at UCB at Finstock’s suggestion. _The Last Trolley Stop_ seemed like it was a lifetime ago and suddenly Stiles was anxious, waiting outside of Meltdown Comics. He knew, logically, that it had only been a few months since wrapping. He waited for Erica, Boyd, and Kira and he had the ludicrous thought of _What if they don’t remember me?_

He pulled out his phone to text Peter— then stopped. 

Instead he took a picture of the glowing sign of the shop and sent it to his dad. 

“Yo, Stiles!” He jerked his head up in time to catch Erica as she flung herself at him. All the building anxieties vanished as he lifted her up. “It’s good to see you.”

Boyd was behind her and he pulled Stiles into a tight embrace, brief and quiet. Kira came up behind them, finishing up a text before shoving her phone into her purse. 

“All right,” Kira tied her hair up with a smile. It was such a familiar move, the flick of her wrists and how she’d hold the hair band between her teeth. Stiles’s chest _hurt_. Kira looked the same, dark circles under her eyes and a bright smile as she pulled him into a one-armed hug, her other arm already reaching for Erica. “Let’s get going!” 

Meltdown Comics was a comic-book shop with a separate room in the back where stand-up comics would be hosted at night. Tickets were never over ten dollars and a lot of the comedians were staff-writers on late-shows. Finstock would be performing that night. 

Everyone was mashed shoulder-to-shoulder. Kira was quiet, her eyes darting up from her phone occasionally as they waited in line to enter the probably-not-fire-safe back room. 

“Thanks for, uh,” Stiles had to move quickly so he didn’t press up against a big, sweaty dude with a bigger, sweatier beard. He turned to slip his arm around Boyd’s shoulder. “Thanks for coming out tonight. I wasn’t sure how busy you’d be.” 

“Puh-leaze,” Erica laughed loudly and punched to Stiles’s shoulder. “We wanted to see you and your glowing young face.” 

Erica reached over to pinch his cheek even though Stiles was pretty sure they were around the same age. Kira was texting but her eyes briefly met Stiles’s. 

“Yeah, and I needed to take a break. I mean, Danny needs a break too, but uh, he insisted I go out tonight.” She turned off her phone. “It’s been a lot of editing to get everything ready for the air date.” 

The four of them shared a small, secretive smile… as if they’d all been unsure of their shared experience. _The Last Trolley Stop_ was real and for better or for worse, it was going to air in just a few weeks. They didn’t say anything more on the matter, as if just talking about it would jinx their chances. 

Plastic folding chairs waited for them and soul music made everyone bounce their heads to the beat. Chairs creaked as they took a seat and when the lights went down the show got started. 

Forget skydiving. Stand-up was the ultimate adrenalin rush. It combined public speaking with the expectation of being _funny_. They each had to stand under harsh lights in a dark room where they could hardly see their audience and had to rely on their laughter to hear if their set was working or not. Stiles’s breath caught in his chest when it was Finstock’s turn. The light fell harshly on every line in his face. His eyes shone as his lips pulled back into a grin that toed the line between manic and gleeful. 

Beside him, Kira straightened in her seat. 

_Oh God_ , Stiles thought as Finstock grabbed the mic, _how does he do it?_

Peter was off in Europe, filming one arthouse movie after another. He sent the occasional text, and sometimes cold advice. Peter had a way of making things perfectly clear without every saying it directly, but Stiles could read between the lines. 

_Keep working_ meant don’t linger on the past. _Network and grow your contacts_ meant don’t bother your old ones. _Remember to keep moving forward_ meant don’t put all hopes on this one kids show that might not work out. Still, he knew that Peter was very close with Kira… so the Shakespearean actor wasn’t shy from breaking his own rules.

Meltdown Comics was a small venue, so when the show was over the comedians lingered in the shop. 

Finstock was sweating and shook hands with a few people before he caught Stiles’s eyes. 

“You actually came!” Stiles was half-hugged half-tackled and his back cracked when Finstock squeezed him. “Sorry, I’m all gross and sweaty.” 

“I don’t care.” Stiles pulled back with a smile. “You were awesome.” 

“Yeah, man.” Finstock perked up and beamed when he saw Boyd and Erica. Erica winked. “You brought the noise, dude.” 

Finstock brought them in for a tight hugs and Stiles felt better than he had in _months_. He respected Peter, but he didn’t buy his bullshit for a second. Having friends wasn’t a liability. 

“Oh geez,” Finstock wiped his eyes and Stiles saw that his fingers trembled. “Did you bring anyone else? I don’t think my heart can take it—”

He trailed off and Stiles, Erica, and Boyd followed his eyes to Kira. Her hands shook as she tried to fix her makeup but it was useless. She rolled her eyes. 

“Fuck you,” Kira grinned with undiluted affection, “my makeup is ruined.” 

Finstock and Kira hugged like they were magnetized. They came together with a rough _thwump_. Kira’s soft “Oh my God, oh my God,” turned into giggling wheezes when he lifted her up. Stiles snapped a picture and soon they all crowded in for one big selfie. 

He sent both pictures to Peter. 

The five of them walked down Sunset Boulevard and it was like time hadn’t passed at all. Finstock’s eyes wrinkled at the sides like they always did when he laughed. Erica talked a mile-a-minute while Boyd would chime in with low, anchoring tones. Kira smiled and made a few suggestions for food. They fell into rhythm with each other like they never stopped. 

::::

When the show finally premiered, Finstock was far away from Los Angeles. 

Josh groaned from somewhere on the floor of their shitty motel room. Finstock’s phone buzzed on the table. He stretched on the bed and his back cracked in three different places as he scrolled through his notifications. There were more than usual but nothing from Lydia so he put his phone back down to charge. 

“You were smart to go sober.” Josh whined on the carpet. They were somewhere in Illinois on a comedy tour. They were two of fifteen comedians and when they weren’t tearing it up on a stage they were drifting from one seedy motel to another. Josh curled in on himself, dragging the blankets off the bed to shield his eyes from the sun. “I’m never drinking again.” 

Finstock rolled out of bed and tugged on crusty jeans. 

“Come on,” Finstock slipped on his shoes, “let’s get some food in you.” 

Touring was great, Finstock was happy to be included with comedians he admired. It was also _exhausting_ where long nights bled into dreary mornings always in a place where cellphone reception was nonexistent. The morning _The Last Trolley Stop_ had aired, Finstock had been asleep on the tour bus, hurdling Eastbound on the highway. His notifications came in clusters when he’d be lucky enough to get Wi-fi or service. 

The premier had been four days ago. 

Josh eventually made himself half-way presentable before they ventured out into the unforgiving morning. Finstock and Josh were armed with sunglasses and beaten-up hoodies. They walked down the street to a Heinen’s grocery store. 

“Sorry we missed the premier.” Finstock unscrewed a water bottle and gave it to Josh. He drank it greedily, sloppily wiping his mouth when a bit of it spilled down his chin. “I was lookin’ forward to seeing you all painted up.” 

Finstock took off his sunglasses to check the expiration date on a carton of chocolate milk. He missed a lot of big things about Los Angeles but also the little things. Like sunglasses. For some reason wearing sunglasses in the morning was an oddity in some places. People would glance at him and he could see them doing the mental math of sunglasses with stubble must mean he’s a hungover burnout. 

“Yeah,” Finstock drawled with a sleep-roughened voice, rubbing his eyes as he turned the milk over in his hands, still looking for that damn date. “I’ll see it eventually.” 

Truth be told… Finstock was nervous. He was nervous because he wasn’t an _actor_ and what if Danny couldn’t save him in editing? What if they had all the right ingredients except for one? He worried his lower lip and pushed it out of his mind. He’d see it later. When he was back in Los Angeles, he’d call Kira and they’d have a re-viewing party or something. His stomach growled and just as his eyes slid to the pre-packaged sandwiches, Josh’s sharp elbow lodged in his side. 

“ _Ow_ ,” Finstock wheezed. “Josh, what the _fuck_?” 

“Don’t look now, dude,” Josh’s dark eyes were suddenly very wide behind his thick glasses, “but there are a gaggle of kids giving you the stink-eye.” 

“ _Gaggle_? Isn’t that for geese?” Finstock was too tired to play any of Josh’s games, but then he remembered that Josh was too hungover to be clever. He squinted at Josh’s wide eyes that were peering over Finstock’s shoulder. “What kind of kids? How many?” 

Josh swallowed. 

“I don’t know, man, all kinds? At least… Christ, at least thirty.”

Finstock blamed it on his low self-esteem and the early hour when it didn’t _click_. In the moment he was terribly confused and worried, maybe these kids had confused him with some sort of criminal. He slowly put down his basket and turned around. Sure enough, a herd of children stared at him. 

The moment he looked at them, the kids gasped as one and charged. 

Finstock let instinct take over, and instinct told him to _run_. He flailed his arms and the kids shrieked behind him, gaining as his shitty sneakers pushed off the tiled floor. 

All he could think about was _Children of the Corn_ and his exhausted brain thought _of course this is happening. I’m in the middle of nowhere and I’ve been having good luck recently. This makes sense_. Air burned his lungs and he ran even though he had nowhere to go, he didn’t know his way around and he couldn’t even remember the direction of the _exit_. Right around the frozen food aisle the blood had stopped pounding in his ears long enough for him to realize that the kids were calling out to him. 

He turned, still running, just in time to catch a frenzied “Mr. Lowry!” 

Finstock’s dumb legs locked and he fell to the floor. He landed with a thud and squeaked along the tiles for a few feet. The kids shouted in victory as they dove with him. 

Josh jogged with exasperated mothers. He had his phone out and staggered to a halt when he saw Finstock laughing with an armful of children. Their tiny hands pulled at Finstock’s face and hair, and he just took it all with a smile as they shouted to their mothers, _“Mom, look! Mr. Lowry has color!”_

Without thinking, Josh lifted his phone and snapped a picture. A flustered mother helped Finstock to his feet and she stammered out frantic apologies. Josh wondered what he should tag the picture with on Instagram. Finstock dusted himself off and effortlessly lifted the kids up to hug them. 

“It’s fine,” Finstock giggled, which just made the kids giggle with him, “it’s totally understandable. I just wasn’t prepared for, uh, the enthusiasm.” 

It was _nuts_ because suddenly these kids wanted to talk about the show. He met Josh’s eyes and thought _is this really happening?_ Josh nodded with a grin and posted the picture. 

Within hours it went viral.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NOW FEATURING AMAZING ART FROM [**@trashyscarface!**](http://trashyscarface.tumblr.com/) I commissioned and am BEYOND happy. Look at how BRIGHT and colorful they are! Commissions are still open! Also go say hello if you enjoyed her art, she's incredibly nice and brought so much color to these characters.
> 
> Oh man. These past three weeks have been hellish. Work has been... incredibly difficult. So this was almost an escape to write and so I hope you enjoy it... and I hope it's just as good as the last chapters have been. Also, I wrote a little bit about the last chapter and some of the places I've talked about. Can be found in my first [**Cameo Insider Issue**](http://mia6363.tumblr.com/post/164879696172/tlts-cameo-insider-issue-1)! 
> 
> And, as always, feel free to come talk to me at my [**tumblr**](http://mia6363.tumblr.com/).
> 
> Please let me know what you think... any and all comments welcome!


	5. Negotiations and Season Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The day after _The Last Trolley Stop_ premiered, Stiles had eight-hundred new Facebook friend requests. All sorts of people who never spoke to him in high school suddenly asked if he remembered them. He had new followers on Twitter and he went from having no representation to having to choose which agent he wanted.

“I hate this suit.” Danny tugged at his tie and scrutinized his reflection in the mirror. “It makes me look like an undertaker.”

Kira and Danny were shoulder-to-shoulder in Danny’s bathroom because it had a vanity sink. Kira breathed slowly until the tremors in her hands stopped long enough for her to apply her deep crimson lipstick. As she studied herself in the mirror she didn’t look for beauty. She looked for sharp edges to amplify, to accentuate confidence and unquestioned authority. Kira didn’t want to look as terrified as she felt. 

“Yeah, but that’s the point.” Kira adjusted her blazer. “I look like… a corporate lawyer in a nineties kid’s movie.” 

Concealer and foundation hid the dark circles under their eyes. Listerine strips masked the weeks of bottomless coffee meet-ups at Stir Crazy. Perfume and cologne samples from Nordstroms provided the illusion of money and confidence. Danny slipped his hand into hers and squeezed as they stepped back onto the Jim Henson Company lot for negotiations. 

Peter’s advice was to _dress so sharp that if they try to grab you, they’ll cut their hands._

Kira’s heart was in her throat but she never let it show on her face. Her knuckles were white, but the executive with the horn rimmed glasses wouldn’t see it because Danny kept her hand clasped under the desk.

The executive wore the same shade of lipstick as Kira, her eyes bright behind her glasses. Her smile was wide and synthetically warm. 

“Great to see you,” she shook their hands firmly before they had a seat in front of her desk. “It’s been an exciting few weeks, hasn’t it?” 

Danny’s hand twitched in Kira’s. Exciting was putting it lightly. After the premier Kira had two hundred new friend requests and Twitter kept crashing on her phone from so many mentions. Her parents called and were laughing, unabashed and unrestrained, because of _her_. She had interview and representation requests that clogged up her inbox. 

Four days after the premier, Finstock’s friend Josh posted a picture of Finstock smiling in a heap on a grocery store floor with a slew of children laughing and crawling on him. It was viral within hours and _The Last Trolley Stop_ was suddenly the only thing anyone could talk about. She’d been alone in her apartment, her phone buzzing constantly in her hand and her breaths coming in short bursts, and thought _this is the moment they talk about in movies. In books._

The moment when she knew her life had changed forever. 

It came as no surprise that the Jim Henson Company was eager to renew the show. 

“First off,” the executive grinned, slow and wide like a lion before a fresh carcass, “let me congratulate you on a strong opening. We knew you had a unique vision, but we had no idea just how many people would be captured by it.” Kira bristled internally but forced her smile to remain. Kira knew Danny felt the same sour squeeze in his chest. HRG folded her hands on her desk. “So, let’s start with seasons. We were thinking—” 

“Our plan is to end _The Last Trolley Stop_ after three seasons.” Danny’s voice was gentle and absolute, his dark eyes never leaving the executive’s gaze. “That will be long enough for syndication and a complete journey for the characters.” 

All the warmth and insistent friendliness left the executive in a long exhale and an arched eyebrow.

“I see,” her teeth clipped around the words, “there’s no hope in changing your mind?” 

“No.” Danny’s fingers were a firm anchor on Kira’s, keeping her from flinching in the face of the annoyance that seeped out of the executive’s posture. “It’s been my plan from the beginning to make sure the show doesn’t overstay its welcome.” 

The clock on the wall roared, each tick like glass shattering on concrete. Kira drew in a breath. 

“We have the remaining season bibles complete with detailed storyboards.” Kira couldn’t remember the last time she’d stayed up for days on end, her and Danny writing and drawing in shifts when they got too tired. She straightened in her chair. “They’re ready for your feedback.” 

Cold eyes met Kira’s. 

“Wonderful,” the executive’s voice was like cracked ice. “Let’s start with the budgetary basics.” 

The following hour was spent in exhaustive financial detailing. Kira thought her mind would melt after every minor increase of budget was followed by a mountain of restraints and qualifiers. After seventy-five minutes, Kira’s voice was hoarse but she was satisfied. 

A stray frizzy lock of hair was the only clue that the executive was equally exhausted. She sighed and leaned back in her chair. 

“May I speak candidly?” 

Danny’s slouch was more apparent than Kira’s, so she spoke and straightened for them both. 

“Of course.”

The executive smiled. 

“A lot of eyes will be on you and rest of the cast and crew. It will be prudent for everyone to be careful with their social media accounts and how much they divulge when it comes in regards to their personal life and opinions.” Kira nodded, her mouth aching from the smile she kept on her face. “Is there anything you can think of that could jeopardize the show?” 

Kira blinked and her smile stuttered. 

“No.” Kira felt Danny’s hand tighten in hers. “Nothing I can think of.” 

The executive tilted her head to the side and Kira felt her heart constrict in her chest. 

“Really?” Kira let her smile drop as the executive leaned forward. “I’m worried about Stiles Stilinski and Peter Hale.” 

Danny’s grip on Kira made her bones creak and his jaw clenched. Kira’s throat bobbed and clicked. 

“What about them?” 

The executive rolled her eyes. 

“They’re awfully close. Peter is an out gay man and him being so close and friendly to Stiles, well, it could raise some uncomfortable implications—”

When Kira had moved out to Los Angeles her parents had been terrified, and they insisted their fear was on her behalf. _Cities are dangerous, Kira,_ her father had reasoned. _Have you read the crime rates for Los Angeles? Kira, we worry about you._ Her mother had taken a different approach to try and get Kira to stay. _You’re not brave enough for a city, Kira. When it comes down to the wire, you back down from a fight._

Kira knew what her mother had meant, that it had been a stinging attempt to smack some sense into her daughter. Kira still had that whispering doubt of _what if I really am a coward?_

She felt like a steel blade dragging against metal, sharp and hair-raising as she interrupted their executive producer. 

“Be careful of what you say next and how you say it.” Kira smiled, serene and bloodthirsty as she tucked her hair behind her ear. Beside her, Danny squeezed her hand, his eyes bright despite his silence. “Please, continue. _Carefully_. And explain to me what you mean.” 

Danny released Kira’s hand. The executive's eyes flickered over to him, to the muscle that jumped in his jaw. Her lips pulled back to expose her teeth. 

“I… I apologize. I misspoke.” She clapped her hands together. “Let’s start over. Jim Henson will take care of PR on the overall, what I wanted to get across was to use good judgement about social media. Obviously we’re thrilled that the cast and crew are close friends. That’s what we hope for in a production.” 

Danny cleared his throat. 

“Of course.” 

“Great.” The executive stood and held out her hand. “We’ll draft up new contracts for the next two seasons and I’ll be in touch about the show bibles.” 

Kira shook her hand first. She didn’t feel guilty about squeezing just a _tad_ too hard to be polite. 

“Wonderful. Thank you.” 

They were quiet for five minutes entire minutes after they stepped off the Jim Henson Company lot. They walked down La Brea and stood outside of their favorite ice cream spot. They knew their tongues were too acidic and sour to taste anything. Danny went to grab Kira’s hand but she flinched. Her fingers throbbed and she knew she’d have bruises within the hour. 

“Aw, geez, Kira,” Danny’s voice cracked loudly and he slung his arm around her. “I’m sorry.” 

“It’s okay.” Kira leaned her head on his shoulder. “She was such an _asshole_.” 

“Oh my god, _right_?” 

His lips cracked into a grin and just like that they were both laughing like lunatics on La Brea and Melrose in the middle of the day. Kira was pretty sure her mascara was running in clumps down her face and her lipstick was smudged, and Danny’s concealer gathered in the fine lines of his face. They laughed and it like they were both back on the shit-com, catching cat-caps in their cars, complaining about PAs and producers, and arguing about the best sushi spots. 

When the high faded they walked to Stir Crazy. Kira wiped her eyes and ignored the eyes that flickered to her makeup-stained face. 

“Kira,” Danny breathed into his ice coffee, his eyes electric. “I’m feeling _subversive_.” 

They spoke in broken sentences, Danny starting and Kira finishing, knowing just what he meant. She smiled and after hours of re-drafting the season-two bible, she scrolled through her phone because she knew the perfect choreographer for the job. 

A week later they’d both gotten some sleep and were feeling (somewhat) calmer. 

Kira perked up when she saw familiar unruly hair. Bobby wore silver aviators and when he grinned Kira couldn’t help but grin back. Stiles was next to him, his cheeks rosy. Danny was the first to stand and greet them. Kira knocked her knees against the table when she hurried to follow suit, like if she didn’t get up fast enough that she’d miss out on one of Finstock’s hugs. 

His arms were a tight weight and she loved how, when they were cheek-to-cheek, she could feel his grin. 

“Congratulations on the ratings.” Stiles winked and his leg bounced. “Are… did you guys get picked up again?” 

Kira nodded and Finstock pumped his fist. 

“ _Yes_.” He held his hand up and Kira high-fived him. Her skin stung and she grinned when Finstock curled his fingers around hers for a moment, his grin luminous. “I knew you could do it.”

Kira felt the tips of her ears get hot and she made sure her smile didn’t falter to the beat of her stuttering heart. 

“Well, it was a group effort. Thank _you_ for bringing such an A-game.” She gently untangled their fingers. “And that’s what we want to talk about, going forward.” 

Danny leaned his elbows on their small cafe table. 

“We’re doing two more seasons. And I want to push ourselves farther in terms of stories and theme. Finstock,” Kira watched the older man straighten in his chair, “by the end of this… I want Mr. Lowry to have color.” 

Danny spoke in a hushed but swift voice and they all leaned in close, just as breathless by the time Danny finished. Kira pulled out her phone. 

“The choreographer I have in mind is in Silverlake. Can you guys commit to three two-hour sessions a week?” 

Maneuvering around their schedules sent a thrill down Kira’s spine. Finstock grinned at her when she handed them the choreographer’s card.

“I gotta admit,” Finstock’s familiar semi-hoarse rasp felt like a handshake from an old friend. “I’m not a good dancer.” 

_Just wait,_ Kira bit her tongue to stop herself from speaking aloud, _if you thought people love you now… they won’t know what hit them in the next season._

She shrugged with a playful smile. 

“I think you’ll be surprised what you can do if you put your mind to it.” 

::::

The day after _The Last Trolley Stop_ premiered, Stiles had eight-hundred new Facebook friend requests. All sorts of people who never spoke to him in high school suddenly asked if he remembered them. He had new followers on Twitter and he went from having no representation to having to choose which agent he wanted.

His dad called him and said so many people were asking about him at the grocery store that his trip took over three hours. 

Stiles deleted Grindr and fought to keep his breathing even in his chest. He had scoffed at Peter’s advice about not getting a big head and being careful with his social media, but he now understood what he meant. Everyone was watching. Everyone wanted to know more, was hungry for _more_.

By the time he was called back to _The Last Trolley Stop_ , Stiles felt as though centuries had passed. His reality had changed so quickly and so drastically… he must be unrecognizable. Anxiety curdled in his stomach and he clenched his fists in the Jim Henson Company parking lot. 

What if he’d changed too much? What if everyone else had changed but in different, more sophisticated ways? What if Stiles lost that magic that made _The Last Trolley Stop_ a hit? 

Whenever he thought back to the first season it felt like a dream. The sets, the harmonious crew, and the intense, focused determination from Danny down to the interns… the more work Stiles did the less he saw that anywhere else. He saw glimmers, maybe some costars having chemistry, a visionary director, a set designer with a few out-of-the-box ideas all recorded in a sketchbook… but nothing that came close to the undiluted creative melody from _The Last Trolley Stop_. Stiles swallowed, his throat sticky and tight. 

The dancing lessons he’d taken with Finstock were a step toward something bigger, he could tell by the glances Kira and Danny shared. _But what if I’m not good enough? What if I’m the grain of sand in their perfect machine?_

Stiles shook himself and got out of his car before unending panic could take over. He grabbed his backpack and jogged to the lot. 

He pushed the doors open before his internalized terror had him run in the other direction. 

Swaths of goldenrod and violet cloths were tossed between PAs as they strung them up from the ceiling. Erica and Boyd had the costumes out and made last minute adjustments. Jetson rolled his eyes as Finstock kept talking despite Jetson trying to put lipstick on him. Kira wheeled dollies out and wiped sweat from her brow. Danny hunched over storyboards that were laid out on a table. 

The moment Stiles stumbled inside it was as if no time had passed. Jetson glanced up. 

“Stiles, get your ass over here, I’ve got some new blushes and I need to see what suits your skin better!” 

Stiles squeezed as many shoulders as he could, grinning so wide that his face _hurt_. Finstock grabbed Stiles’s hand and squeezed. 

“Hey.” His teeth were big and white, their color accentuated by the grey makeup. “Good to be back, right?” Stiles nodded, lightheaded as champagne bubbles popped just beneath his skin. Finstock’s thumb rubbed over Stiles’s knuckles before he dropped his hand with a wink. “If you’re dizzy, bend your knees and take deep breaths.” 

Stiles nodded again, and then doors opened once more. He turned in time to see Peter Hale stroll in with a suitcase and puffy bags under his eyes. Stiles remembered Peter’s cold advice about not getting attached to a particular project and crew. 

“Frieda!” Peter dropped his bags and swept up the first PA he could reach into a tight hug. “Good to see you!” 

The last lingering jitters slipped away. Peter’s eyes met his and Stiles’s smile widened. Peter gently put the grinning PA down. His suitcase clattered to the floor as he ran over, his lope uneven and crooked. Jetson quickly grabbed his rolling table of equipment and pulled it back as Peter slammed into Stiles full force. 

His arms were a familiar, strong weight. His stubble scratched Stiles’s cheek and neck. Stiles stumbled with a quiet _oof_ and squeezed Peter back. Peter’s hands trembled. He smelled like sweat and stale coffee. 

“Did you just get off the plane?” Peter nodded and Stiles snorted, his cheek mashed against Peter’s. “Yeah, you stink like an airport.” 

He expected Peter to let him go, to laugh at his joke, maybe pinch his side and argue that he was wearing expensive cologne that simply couldn’t battle the horrors of LAX. Peter was going to let Stiles go and tell him to get ready for Jetson to give him a full face. He was going to let Stiles go and get the latest script updates from Kira. 

But he didn’t let Stiles go. He held him close, so close that Stiles was lifted off the ground by his grip. The tips of his sneakers bumped against Peter’s shins. 

“It’s good to see you again, Stiles.” 

The words were soft, almost lost in the hum of the lights and movement around them. The machine was running. Everyone was getting in position. Stiles wondered if Peter felt how hot his cheek was, if he could tell how hard his heart hammered in his chest. 

“I missed you too, Peter.” 

Stiles pulled back and his feet returned to the floor. The wrinkles at the corners of Peter’s eyes were more distinct. His blue-green eyes were exhausted but happy, and the kind of happy without an ironic, cynical twist. He wore the same smile when he’d find Stiles in the kitchen making coffee or struggling to find his socks since they always seemed to go missing in Peter’s room. It was such a different smile than the forced one Peter had worn when he told Stiles to keep moving forward, to not get hung up on one group of people or a place. 

_You’re so full of shit_ , Stiles thought with dazzling affection. Peter cracked his neck and kicked Finstock’s shoe. 

“Ready to get back to work, Finstock?”

Finstock saluted with a snort. 

“Aye, aye, asshole.” 

Stiles threw his head back and laughed. 

::::

Erica never thought that she’d reach a point in her life where she’d have an intern, let alone a small army of interns at her disposal. Erica had grown accustomed from living minimally, to expecting nothing. 

Funny how fast her life had changed. 

“All right.” Erica wiped sweat from her forehead on La Brea. It was early on Sunday morning and she’d spent all night making little lunch bags full of sandwiches and juice boxes. She felt a dull thud in her chest at the sight of those lunch bags in her interns’ hands. “Boyd and I will need two of you each to help us with our cube. The rest of you guys will be in the thick of it. Don’t throw elbows… but don’t let yourselves get pushed around, okay?” 

Every Sunday morning Jet Rag would have a big clearance sale where cubes of vintage clothings would be be sold for one dollar per piece of clothing. 

Boyd sat on a cube of clothing he’d staked out. Erica was across the lot, on her own cube. The moment it went from 8:59 to 9:00, employees came to cut the plastic and all hell broke loose. 

In Philadelphia Erica was used to dumpster-diving for materials. When they had no money but still had to turn out pieces, Erica and Boyd knew how to scrounge for materials. Even though they had a larger budget (they had a _budget_ ) Erica still felt more comfortable doing things the old-fashioned way, down in the dirt and sweat. 

Each intern got twenty dollars and had to spend it all. The hauls would then be taken to Boyd’s truck and they’d go over the findings together. The budget had increased and now there was the desire for guest stars which meant more costumes. Erica had to stop herself from hugging them when the last wide-eyed intern walked away from the cashier with an armful of old clothes. 

“Come on. We’ve done plenty.” 

Boyd pulled Erica away from their work station in the garage hours later. Her hands cramped around the colored pencils she’d used to sketch ideas on how to transform their haul. Erica kicked her feet as she tilted her neck back to kiss him.

“We can do more.” 

Her husband’s warm hands closed over hers, gently massaging the feeling back in her fingers. He carried her to bed and undressed her, slow and intimate in a way that always made Erica’s throat tight and tears prickle at the corners of her eyes. Boyd grinned against her stomach when she whiend. 

“You made them lunch.” 

Erica hated how hot her cheeks got, how that only made Boyd cock a knowing brow. He unbuttoned her pants and Erica threw her head back when his fingers tickled around the edge of her jeans. 

“I, _ah_ , I just wanted them to have energy to focus on the clothes.” 

Boyd tugged her jeans off, tossing them behind him. He pressed his lips to the inside of her ankle, pulling her closer to the edge of the bed. Erica shivered when Boyd curled his index and middle finger over the top of her underwear. 

“Sure.” He pulled them down, slowly. Every inch made Erica squirm, her cheeks red and her skin hyper-sensitive. “Whatever you say, Mama Bird.” 

“Oh my God.” Erica laughed and Boyd laughed with her. He tugged her underwear off and Erica’s chest still jumped, giggles making her shake. “You’re so mean.” 

_I love you_ was what she meant. Boyd grinned and squeezed her thighs like he heard it anyway. 

::::

Finstock was a semi-regular guest on several late-night shows. That was a fact that continuously blew his mind… the fact that his brother would call him up and say, “ _I loved your bit on Kimmel,”_ was not something Finstock would have predicted. 

Lydia constantly texted him. Did he have time to fly to New York? Colbert wanted to have him on for an interview and possible sketch. While he was there maybe he could host SNL. Did he have a preferred venue to tape his first stand-up special? Some comedians liked to do it in their home state, but since Los Angeles was his true home… did he have a preference? 

It was enough to make him dizzy if he thought about it too much. 

For every _big_ venue (the kind where seats were at least sixty dollars) Finstock made sure to book at least three of his favorite small-time spots. Small venues were the best. 

His hands still shook a little when he grabbed the microphone at the Pleasure Chest, the lights unforgivingly bright and he could see every face in the audience. When he’d first met Lydia there had been about twenty people squashed together in uncomfortable folding chairs. Now… now a sea of faces, at least seventy people, stared back at him. 

Kira was there. 

In small venues he could hear the breath catch in their lungs, he could watch them twist in their seats as uncomfortable hitches of breath turned into belted out laughter.

His hands were clammy when he finally released the microphone. Josh held out his hand so Finstock could step off the small stage they’d set up at the last minute. He was sweating and was certain he looked deranged. He chugged a bottle of water and searched the crowd for Kira. 

He found her turning on her phone by the start of the vibrator section. He smiled as her brow furrowed, her phone pinging and buzzing in her hands as her notifications for the past hour poured in. Her hair was up in a hastily made bun with frizzy strands escaping. Per usual after she attended one of his shows, her mascara had begun to smudge at the corner of her eyes. 

She glanced up at him with a beaming grin and Finstock only had one word echoing through his mind. 

_Striking_. 

She immediately went in for a hug and Finstock opened his arms. 

“Just a warning, I’m really sweaty.” 

Kira didn’t hesitate before she slipped her arms under his, her hands pressing against his back. Her cheek was warm against his shoulder. Finstock let his eyes drift shut as he held her and felt her heart beating against his chest. He wondered if it felt the same for her, the anchoring comfort of a great, friendly hug. If Finstock were honest… Kira gave the best hugs he’d ever received.

“Great show, Bobby.” 

She pulled back and bumped her arm against his. He slung his arm around her shoulder because it felt right, and she relaxed as she leaned against him. Post-show jitters still ran down his spine but Kira soothed it, her arm lazily slung around his waist. Finstock suddenly wished they were outside where there was a cool breeze instead of wandering along shelves of vibrators. 

He felt Kira come to the same realization when her step faltered. 

“See anything you like?” 

When faced with an uncomfortable situation, Finstock’s instinct was to make a joke. He had to cut the tension somehow, he had to redirect his self-scrutiny outward. Kira glanced around, her cheeks pink. Finstock’s stomach sank. _I went too far. I finally went too fucking far._ It was inevitable, that Finstock would ruin this unquestioned comfortable friendship… by being too much of himself. It made sense. Kira was a sweet girl and Finstock reveled in vulgarity—

“You know, I’ve always meant to get one and I never got around to it.” Kira didn’t bat an eye, her cheeks still rosy but her smile hadn’t faltered when she turned to face him. “I wanted one in college but I was so paranoid that my parents would, I don’t know, check my bank statements or something… and eventually I just forgot.” 

Finstock nudged her with his elbow. 

“Well, you should get one now. If you still want one.” 

Kira turned back to the vibrators and shrugged. 

“I mean… yeah. I _should_ , you know? I swear, I’ve been so fucking tired…lately I fall asleep before I can finish mastubrating.” Her eyes slid to him. “Sorry if that was too much information.” 

“Nah.” Finstock grinned. “No such thing. Here. Let’s take a look.” 

He waved over a Pleasure Chest employee, a pink-haired girl with thick glasses and a toothy smile. Her name was Linnea and she was very informative. Finstock’s career had surprised him… and yet this was the most shocking moment, when he spent twenty minutes learning the ins-and-outs of quality vibrators. 

Kira decided on the blue Ocean Mini by Fun Factory. Linnea’s cheery, “it’s a great starter, different vibration settings and the curve is perfect for clitorial and g-spot stimulation, so it really lets you play depending on your mood for the night,” left Kira grinning. 

Finstock gently took the box out of her hands when they meandered to the cash register. 

“My treat.” He winked. “So there’s no paper trail.” 

Kira was still smiling by the time they were in the parking lot, the cold air providing a nice relief. Finstock grinned and leaned against his car. Kira wiped her eyes. 

“Thanks for inviting me out. I need to remind myself that weekends aren’t just for storyboarding.” She paused, the lines under her eyes and at the corners of her mouth deepening when she smiled. “And thank you for the vibrator.” 

Finstock snorted. 

“Don’t mention. It’s what friends are for.” And, because he couldn’t resist, Finstock bumped his shoe against Kira’s. “Think of it this way, now you’ll be like a summer blockbuster.” 

Kira’s brow furrowed though her smile didn’t lesson. 

“How so?”

Finstock cleared his throat so he could reach a lower octave in his vocal register. 

“Because you’ll be _coming this summer_.” 

Kira hit his shoulder and laughed. Oh how she _laughed_ , and every time it was like it was a surprise. Her ears were red, her eyes watery, and when she met Finstock’s eyes he felt like he’d taken one extra step on the staircase and was falling. It should be terrifying, the sensation of hurtling toward _something_. But when Kira’s finger closed around his shoulder and _squeezed_ , Finstock wasn’t afraid. 

::::

Harsh film lights pushed through colored filters and sent long splotches of different colors across the set. Twinkling glass overhead provided the illusion of thin slices of seemingly random light. The crew was frozen in devout silence. Danny and Kira stared intently as Finstock and Stiles panted, out of breath on the stage.

Finstock sat with his head bowed, paint dripping off his nose and his fingers. 

“I just thought… I thought if I added more color I’d be more like you, Rangsey.” Peter watched the colored lights fall on Finstock’s face as he raised his head, his smile exhausted with aged agony. “There are times… when I want to dance like you do. When I want to sing like you do. Even though I’m _gray_ all over.” 

Finstock’s voice caught and Peter felt his heart lurch in sympathy. Peter thought that after the success of the first season that Danny and Kira would play it safe. Subversion was fun but it didn’t guarantee renewals and ratings. He couldn’t be positive, but something must have happened in Kira and Danny’s meeting with their executive producers. Instead of pulling back and softening the show to make it more massively appealing, Kira and Danny doubled down. 

Color was diversity. Color was expression. Color was unmistakably fighting against self and societal repression. 

Kira’s knuckles were white as she gripped her clipboard. Peter was certain that Danny hadn’t taken a breath in thirty seconds. 

They were wrapping their mid-season finale where it would become clear that Mr. Lowry was the true heart of _The Last Trolley Stop_. 

_It’s a gamble_ , Peter thought as his knees locked. Finstock wasn’t a trained actor. Stiles was still relatively new, and yet this was all riding on them. Peter’s mouth was bone-dry. The entire episode had been about Mr. Lowry forcing color onto himself with sloppily applied paints. The result was a chaotic episode but the energy had calmed as they filmed the final few minutes. 

Stiles crouched by him and wiped a cloth over Finstock’s face, over a large application of teal and yellow. 

Jetson had worked hard to find a way to seal the gray on Finstock so that it would be possible to remove the dashes of paint thrown on him. And it worked, seamlessly, as Rangsey gently returned a trembling Mr. Lowry from colorful back to grey. 

“It’s okay. You don’t need to do it all at once.” Stiles took Finstock’s hands and wiped it with the same cloth, the glitter shimmering on his cheeks as he smiled. “Color shouldn’t be about anyone else other than you. What you’re comfortable with. Putting yourself out there can be scary so work up to it instead of trying to do it all at once.” By the time he was done, the only color that remained on Finstock was on his fingernails. “Only do it for you. Nobody else. Okay?” 

Stiles got up and dusted himself off. He held out his hand. Finstock took it with a wobbly but genuine grin. 

“Okay,” Finstock nodded and a few tears slipped down his cheeks. “Okay, yeah.” 

The lights dimmed and the cameras pulled back. Danny yelled, “Cut,”and Peter watched him grin at Kira. _They’re not fucking around_. Stiles hit Finstock’s shoulder, his eyes wide and Peter saw him mouth “holy shit dude,” as the crew burst into movement. Jetson rushed to carefully pat Finstock’s face dry and reapply setting spray. Danny rolled the camera back as Erica shot up a ladder to adjust the light filters and glass. 

“We’re gonna run it from the top.” 

Kira announced, her eyes sweeping over props as PAs re-set the stage. Peter’s knuckles ached and he realized he’d been clutching his hands into fists. He wished with ferocity that he’d had this show as a kid, that he had such loveable characters available to reassure him that _being different is okay._

He cleared his throat and got out of Kira’s way when she hurried through to make last minute adjustments. 

Peter had been in countless plays and arthouse films. Hell, he’d been nominated for an Academy Award, he was no stranger to being held in critical acclaim. Still, as he watched Stiles and Finstock unfurl raw warmth and connection, Peter knew this was different. 

When the first season had ended Peter hadn’t allowed himself to hope. He loved Kira but he knew that just thinking Kira was swell wasn’t enough to guarantee a show’s renewal. It had plenty of charm and artistic vision, but that didn’t matter in most cases. 

Kira and Danny whispered to each other, Danny’s eyes on the storyboards and Kira’s eyes on the stage. Peter’s heart hammered in his throat and he couldn’t look away from Stiles. 

_This is going to make a difference._

“One last thing,” Danny had to shout to be heard over the dull roar of the crew packing up once the episode was wrapped. Finstock’s face was scrubbed clean, still splotchy and pink in some places. Stiles was dressed in sweats and had his bag thrown over his shoulder. Danny smiled at Peter. “Peter has bought a row of tickets at the Arclight tonight for the new Yorgos Lanthimos movie if anyone is up for a dark thriller. Everyone is invited but it’s by no means necessary to go.” 

Peter was immediately swamped with hugs, high-fives, and clapped hands on his back. He hissed at Danny and pinched the director’s side. 

“Asshole, I told you to say it was a gift from the Jim Henson Company.” 

“Psh.” Danny rolled his eyes. “I give credit to the people who deserve it.” 

Peter only expected a few people to go, but to his surprise the entire cast and crew accepted the invitation. He waited by his car and Stiles sidled up next to him, his smirk crooked and knowing. 

“Being nice is a weird look on you.” 

Peter scowled. 

“Shut up.” 

Stiles’s grin widened and Peter wanted to kiss him, to push him up against his car and bite the smug curl off his lips. Stiles licked his lips with a knowing, raised eyebrow. A gust of wind blew and the young man shivered. More people got into their cars, the occasional “see you at the theater,” thrown his way.

“Come on.” Peter jerked his head to his car. “You’ll warm up on the way to the theater.”

“All right, all right.” 

Stiles threw his bag in the back and once he closed the door Peter pulled him into a kiss. Stiles made a muffled sound of surprise before he grinned, his tongue sliding along Peter’s teeth. Peter pulled back before he gave into the temptation to skip the movie and drive back to his house. They had to leave soon, but Peter took just a few moments to stare at Stiles’s lips. 

“Want to get coffee after the movie?” 

“Sure.” Stiles’s smile was lazy, relaxed in a way that had to be earned. “Coffee sounds great.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wooo! Sorry this update took a little longer than usual, work was crazy. But I hope this is a fun update, I had a lot of fun with it! Please, let me know what you think. Even if you're meh to it, if you read it... just let me know. Also to clarify, Finstock and Stiles's character names are Mr. Lowry and Rangsey. 
> 
> The art is by [**@trashyscarface**](http://trashyscarface.tumblr.com/) who is incredible and did so well with my commission. 
> 
> Also feel free to message me and follow me on tumblr: [**@mia6363** ](http://mia6363.tumblr.com/)come over and say hello! 


	6. The Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Danny swallowed and his mind whirled with the potential for slashed budgets, reduced episodes per season, or a pay cut—
> 
> He didn’t expect to be assigned a slot and float in the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day parade.

Danny had always heard that great productions were like well-oiled machines. He’d read countless books on movies and television shows, about all the small details and dramas that went on behind the camera, but when he boiled down his favorite productions, even if problems arose, the machine kept running. 

It was the start of September and the looming upcoming holidays made the well-oiled machine of _The Last Trolley Stop_ run at top speed. 

Erica strode across the stage on stilts, draped in heavy cloth with shimmering beads sewn in intricate patterns. Boyd was on his knees making last minute hem adjustments to Stiles’s gold trousers. Jetson had Finstock’s chin pinched between his thumb and index finger and applied a faint pink sheen to his lips. The scene was being reset and they were about to go into shooting when Kira glanced down at her phone. 

Her stride staggered to a stop.

“Danny,” Kira blinked, her lips twitching the way they did when she wasn’t sure if she wanted to frown or not. “Take a look at this.” 

She held out her phone and it was a succinct email from their executive requesting a meeting after the shoot. Danny didn’t let his hands shake when he handed Kira’s phone back. He didn’t let the acidity bubble up from his throat to his tongue. The machine was going, he had shaped it with his bare hands and now it couldn’t be stopped, no matter what the executive did. 

The remainder of the day passed as the rest of their shoots did, full of hard work, sweat, and ended with exhausted smiles and tight hugs. Danny was the last one to leave the set. He found Kira in the parking lot, her tank-top patchy with sweat. Small hairs fell out of her ponytail and clung to the back of her neck. She leaned against her car. Peter and Finstock lingered with her, Peter with a sharp smile and smoky voice, while Finstock’s lips were curled much softer, the shadows falling harsher on his face. 

Kira looked up and met Danny’s gaze. 

“Gotta go.” Kira pushed herself off the car with a deep breath. “Thanks for sticking around, guys.” 

Peter scoffed, his posture and stance long and elegant like a disinterested cat, but his gentle embrace betrayed his faux indifference. Finstock wasn’t the type to layer his affection. He swept Kira into a hug that lifted her feet off the ground as they spun, cheek to cheek. When Kira slid back to the ground her grin was unrestrained in its wild affection with hints of disbelief. 

It was a disbelief that Danny deeply understood. Thoughts of _I can’t believe we’re really doing this, I can’t believe we’re making this_ , and _I can’t believe how_ perfect _everyone is_ constantly danced in his mind in the moments after a shoot. Kira’s cheeks were stained pink, the same pink that crept up Finstock’s neck and ears. The pink was getting harder to hide, harder to not acknowledge, but they managed it as Kira bid them goodnight before she joined Danny. He held out his elbow. 

Kira wove her arm through. 

The lot was usually empty when they wrapped shooting, but that night a single light remained in the executive’s building. They didn’t say a word, not bothering to wonder and worry about what could have happened, what crisis hadn’t they predicted. They didn’t have the sharp clothes to wear as armor, and Danny couldn’t help but feel vulnerable in his thin t-shirt and jeans, sweat still cooling along his spine. 

The executive didn’t bat an eye at their clothes as she immediately held her hand out. 

“Thanks for coming,” her hands were always perfectly exfoliated and cold. “Please, have a seat.” 

Danny and Kira sat in the leather seats and they winced at how their skin stuck to the material. Danny swallowed and his mind whirled with the potential for slashed budgets, reduced episodes per season, or a pay cut—

He didn’t expect to be assigned a slot and float in the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day parade. 

“It’s a little late, right? I mean it’s fucking _September_.” 

Danny squeezed his arms around his middle as he ground his teeth. He leaned against his car and ignored the sensation of his stomach lining becoming even thinner. Kira blew her hair out of her eyes. She rolled her lower lip between her teeth, a nervous habit that she had mostly shaken… unless it was a dire situation. 

“It’s a power-play. I’m sure she’ll say it’s to make sure we were able to start broadcasting before Thanksgiving and to make sure our ratings maintained the climb, but we know better.” 

Danny dragged his fingers down his face, pulling at his skin until white lines were left behind. 

“Folks have probably already bought their tickets home to see their families.” 

He had. And of course he was going to cancel them, but still. Kira hummed and Danny peeked at her from behind his fingers. He knew that she had already arranged to go home, but she would not feel the same guilt as he did at having to make different arrangements.

“At least it’s early enough so that cancellation fees won’t be that bad. And we can definitely write off their reimbursement as an expense, which the executive will have to sign off for because of the short notice.” Kira smiled, soft and sweet. “I think you’ll be surprised at how… okay everyone is going to be with a change in plans.” 

Danny still felt anxious, but the next day he felt foolish for doubting her when the room erupted in cheers. Even Peter let out an imperfect whoop and jumped, _actually jumped_ , into the air before he slung his arm around Finstock and Stiles’s shoulders. Renewed energy surged on the set and Erica gripped Danny’s hand tight and grinned.

“We get to design the float, right?” 

::::

Finstock hated Thanksgiving when he was young. 

Thanksgiving was just a shitty appetizer compared to Christmas. It meant sitting at the table with his family, stilted and uninteresting conversations that were eventually muted for tasteless food, and worst of all— no presents. What made it worse was that Oswald insisted in keeping the tradition of formal clothes, bland food, and uncomfortable silence punctuated by swallowed belches or ignorant comments. 

Yeah, Thanksgiving was Finstock’s least favorite holiday. 

He shivered as he stood on an applebox, waiting for Jetson to unpack his supplies from his suitcase. His teeth chattered and it wasn’t just from the cold. He thought he’d gotten over stagefright but suddenly the dizzying nausea and sticky sweat returned to him like it was his first open-mic. 

Josh was rapid-fire texting him with pictures of him at his parents’ house, blurry shots of his mother and father glued to the television with the caption _Can’t wait to see you_. Shelbie and Stuart both had phones now, and they were just as bad as Josh. Finstock’s knees knocked together. The inside of his mouth was dry and sticky at the same time. 

After a week of rehearsals that went on into the night, it was finally _the big day_.

“If you’re going to throw up or pass out, be sure to do it away from me.” Peter stood on an apple box and his legs didn’t quake at all. His costume was already altered and he scrolled through his phone idly. Finstock peeked over and was pretty sure that asshole was playing Candy Crush. “Bend your knees so they don’t lock up.” 

Unlike Peter, Finstock was stripped down to his black boxer-briefs and a thin tank-top ready to be airbrushed gray. His teeth slammed together painfully, his skin tight as he followed Peter’s advice. He was too cold to tell if it helped. 

“I h-h-hate you, Peter.” 

“No you don’t.”

“Y-Yeah,” Thick streams of white left his mouth. “You’re r-right, I don’t.” 

Stiles was off for costume adjustments, Jetson was shaking up his paints, and Kira—

Kira was right in front of him. 

Her hands were warm and soft when she gently took his fingers into her own. Finstock had been shaking so hard he felt as though the skin was going to fall off his bones, yet the moment she touched him he was still. She was talking, though Finstock didn’t hear a word she said, not when she brought his hands to her lips and cupped her fingers around them. She blew on his hands and Finstock thought, _holy shit I’m dreaming. I have to be fucking dreaming._

Every breath became Finstock’s whole world. He stared at her, her furrowed, worried brows and how her hands didn’t shake when they gripped his fingers. She drew in another breath, and the warm air washed away the bullshit that Finstock had used to convince himself that he wanted nothing more than to be a bachelor for life. 

Her lips brushed his fingers and Finstock’s world went white like lightening because _he’d been so full of shit_. Along the way of getting know Kira Yukimura, she went from being a great woman to the world’s most wonderful person. Her hugs had started as a simple act but quickly became an experience, an addicting rush to feel her warm cheek against his, to make her laugh as he spun her around. When Finstock had met Kira Yukimura the first thing he’d thought was _nice handshake_ , and quickly followed by, _she’s just as sweet in person as she is over the phone._

Now… now whenever he looked at her… he _really_ looked.

He saw the way she’d direct Erica’s eye for set design, he heard her confidence in their production from Danny down to the interns. He felt her gentle touches, always brief but firm whenever they needed to do several takes. On paper, Kira Yukimura was an excellent producer. 

To Finstock… she was the taste of soda bursting on his tongue during the trailers of a movie, the sting of a really _great_ high-five, and the ethereal silence that washed over a crowd _moments_ before they burst into laughter and applause. 

On nights after a long shoot when it was just the two of them in the parking lot, Finstock swore she would linger. As if he needed an excuse to stay with her, to keep talking or share a silence, their breaths puffing out in front of them in the dark. They’d lean against his car, shoulder-to-shoulder, and some nights they never spoke a word. Whenever they were alone she never pressed him to be funny. Sure, there were times when he’d have her in stitches because watching Kira’s breath catch and her face crack open into a smile was one of his favorite sights, but when they were both too tired… 

He’d lean on her, and he’d hear her exhale, soft and slow like they were caught in a secret, elaborate dance. On those nights he’d fantasize about what it would feel like to tangle their fingers together with a smile. 

Warm, sweet air chased away the brittle cold. She drew back and Finstock was seconds away from begging her to stay when she guided his hands to press against the soft skin on her neck and shoulders. She somehow burned _hotter_ than her breath and he felt greedy as he pressed his palms to her skin. 

“— be on the sidelines with hot packs and water, so just give a wave if you ever need anything, okay, Bobby?” 

Her pulse thudded against his fingertips. Her hazel eyes were an anchor and just like that, the paralyzing stagefright was lifted. Finstock wasn’t at his first open-mic where it ended with him throwing up for a half hour in the bathroom. He was with _Kira Yukimura_ , and if she was there then everything would be alright. 

“You got it, Kira.” 

Jetson _finally_ wheeled his station over. Finstock’s hands lingered under Kira’s coat and he gently withdrew his fingers, letting them skim across her neck as Kira stepped back. He couldn’t be sure, but he thought he felt her pulse increase moments before his fingers left her skin. 

“Everyone is going to be great.” Kira was insistent in her firm-but-kind way as Jetson doused Finstock in the first layer of gray. He didn’t feel a sting, his fingers still tingling. Peter squeezed Kira’s hands. “Remember, none of you better be afraid to ask for help, for anything, okay? Whatever you name, I’ll get it for you.” 

Finstock nodded dumbly and Kira was off like a bullet with a smile. The second layer of gray was applied and Finstock still couldn’t feel it over the unending _OhGodOhGodOhGod_ that sang across his mind. 

“You doing okay, Finstock?” 

Peter was smirking, Finstock could hear it in his voice. Jetson gently applied shimmer to Finstock’s cheeks before he moved on to really bring out the Norman-Rockwell-Rosy-Cheeks on Peter. 

“Well, I’m definitely not cold anymore.” 

They were in a warehouse full of floats and somewhere down the way, Finstock heard Danny’s voice call out, “Let’s get moving,” and Finstock thought, _This is it_.

::::

Erica had left a week before the rest of them flew to New York City to work on the float with a local team of builders, and the extra time she spent _showed_. Stiles’s jaw actually dropped when they first entered the warehouse because all the other floats faded away once they got close to their Trolley. It was a massive float on wheels that looked like a giant Trolley out of a picture book. It was painted with deep green and shimmering gold. The bottom of the float was lined with precisely cut and painted acrylic to give the illusion of a iridescent stained glass. Long gold poles extended up to the expansive ceiling that had swaths of cloths loosely hanging down. 

Stiles was speechless for the first time in his life.

A shriek of delight made them all turn in time to see Erica launch herself at Boyd, hard enough that he stumbled back a few steps before he got his hands under her legs and hoisted her up. Her knees hugged his waist and when they kissed it was a mixture of laughter and love that made Stiles’s stomach twist with envy. 

“Fantastic work,” Danny breathed, his eyes wide as they swept over the enormous trolley. “Erica, you’ve outdone yourself.”

The week of rehearsals sped by. Kids from various Broadway shows were eager volunteers to join them for _The Last Trolley Stop’s_ little moment in the televised spotlight. His father insisted he wasn’t disappointed that Stiles wasn’t going to be able to come home because, _“I’m gonna see you on television, Stiles.”_

It was _freezing_ in New York City. He was surprised Finstock’s single remaining testicle didn’t drop off. Stiles worried about everything, from his costume being flexible enough for the dancing, to the balls of compressed colored powder and glitter that they’d have in buckets by their feet that they would throw, to him simply passing out from fear, dehydration, or simply because _he was in the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade_.

But he didn’t faint or vomit or die suddenly and/or mysteriously. 

Adrenalin and the entire team kept him going, dancing, waving, smiling through the roaring cheers as they threw the powders into the air. When they stopped for their moment in the parade, Stiles spun, swinging on Peter and Finstock’s arm as the Broadway kids sang and danced around them like such pros it made Stiles _dizzy_. 

It felt like lifetimes and mere seconds when Stiles was gone from the roars of the crowd and in a motel room, still coming down from the high and the cold. 

The Jim Henson Company got them spread of motel rooms with double queen beds in each, and the doors were constantly opening and closing with crew hopping from room to room. Stiles and Peter were on the queen bed, too tired to move. Their feet dangled off the side. Stiles managed to get one shoe off and his jacket, but that was it. Stiles was in what he called “the funeral sleep position,” flat on his back with his hands folded on his stomach. He only ever slept like that when he had no energy left. 

Familiar fingers fumbled over his stomach. 

“Ugh.” A faint ringing remained in his ears. Stiles opened his eyes to see Peter fumbling with one of Stiles’s pockets. “What are you doing?”

“Your phone has been going off for the last five minutes.” 

“Wha— _oh_.” Stiles bolted upright and took a moment until his vision stopped blurring. He pressed his palm to his temple. His head throbbed like a drum, but oddly enough, he didn’t have a headache. “Whoa. Is the room spinning for you too or is it just me?” 

Peter’s body jerked and he glared at Stiles severely. 

“When’s the last time you had something to drink?” Stiles’s tongue felt like a dead sponge in his mouth. He hesitated long enough for Peter to roll his eyes like Stiles had personally insulted his dog. “When we’re back home I’m going to get you an obnoxiously bright water bottle and I better see it every day on set.” 

Erica whistled from the floor. 

“Calm down, Peter. Stiles, you can have mine. I promise, I don’t have cooties. Or herpes.” 

She tossed him a water bottle and the moment water touched his tongue he realized just how thirsty he’d been. He chugged it down like an animal, blind, deaf, and dumb to anything that wasn’t the bottle in his hand. Once he finished, the world slowly came back to him in tiny, soft details. 

The shower was running. Peter had stripped down to his undershirt and soft sweatpants. Erica was sprawled out on the floor and she tugged Stiles’s remaining shoe off. Various members of the crew were sprawled out with her, on their phones and just decompressing. Stiles’s fingers shook as he took out his own phone, barely managing to unlock it before it fell to the bed. 

“Hey, Peter?” Peter hummed in response. “Could you do me a favor and just let me know the gist of what messages are on my phone? My eyes are still struggling to focus.” 

For a moment he thinks Peter isn’t going to do it, that it would make _whatever it is they are to each other_ too obvious. Stiles’s shoulders slouched and he hit his fingers against his knee and tried to will the feeling back into them. When he reached for his phone one more time, Peter snatched it away. 

“Let’s see,” Peter sat up, their knees pressed together. “A few from your father. Some from numbers you don’t have entered in. Looks like a couple pictures are still loading…” 

Peter read them off in a hushed voice while Erica refilled her water bottle and handed it off to him. More and more people joined them, Boyd with his fingers wrapped in bandages from all the last-minute fixes he’d had to do, and Danny brought up the last bits of crew with Kira, their arms full with—

“Pizza!” Finstock swooned, fresh out of the shower in the coziest striped pajamas that Stiles had ever seen. “Oh my God, you brought pizza!” 

Stiles felt better the more water he drank. Peter’s fingers trailed down his back gently, stopping to rub circles as Stiles shoved closer to him to make more room on the bed for the crew. 

He’d had a lot of Thanksgivings, but Stiles couldn’t think of one better than being elbow-to-elbow with the Trolley Stop gang all crammed in a motel room. Finstock sat on the floor next to Boyd, Erica was off spinning stories about building sets in high school, and Danny and Kira were passing out plates and pizza. Stiles wiggled his toes and he heard the familiar _click_ of a camera when he had his cheeks stuffed full of delicious dough and cheese. 

Stiles turned to see Peter smirk as he held Stiles’s phone. 

Hours later when it had quieted down and everyone had tucked into bed, Stiles scrolled through his messages. He shared a bed with Finstock, and Kira and Peter dozed off together in the next bed over. Stiles hid his head under the pillow so the brightness didn’t disturb anyone. 

He had four photos from his father, all blurred images of his television whenever it would get closer to showing Stiles. 

Stiles’s shoulders jumped and he squeezed his eyes shut. He missed his dad, he missed the silence they could share when they were both too tired to talk. He wanted his dad to see how how great Thanksgiving could be even when it was in a cramped motel room. His first thought of _this is the best Thanksgiving I’ve ever had_ was immediately followed by _I miss dad_. 

He sent the photo Peter took of him before he put his phone on the night table. Finstock stirred beside him, his fingers clumsily bumping against Stiles’s back. 

“Y’okay?” 

Stiles nodded, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand. 

“I’m good.” 

Finstock grunted, a slurred barrage of noises falling from his lips before he quieted down and stole the covers. 

::::

Being on _The Late Show with Stephen Colbert_ was like locking two bats in a cage. Stiles was a little nervous, Peter was the “old pro,” and Finstock… well, Finstock was a comedian. And Peter quickly found out that when two comedians were in close proximity and played off each other well… they became rabid bats in a cage, chasing one laugh after the other until Stephen had to reel them back and wipe his eyes. 

“I don’t think we can use this, I think you blew out the mics, Bobby.” Stephen’s smile had a southern sweetness to it, and Peter noticed that whenever he’d drawl certain words that Stiles would relax. “Carol, could I get a touch-up? I think my makeup is running.” 

The audience was eating it up but Peter could hear his agent tearing her hair out because he’d barely gotten a chance to speak. Finstock caught Peter’s eye and winked, like he could hear Peter’s vague annoyance. 

“All right, Stephen, how about I shut up for sixty seconds while you ask some meaningful questions to Peter and Stiles.” 

“Bobby Finstock,” Stephen Colbert grinned, slow and sweet, “you are one of the most generous guests I’ve ever had.” 

Finstock cackled before he slapped his hands over his mouth. Stiles bounced a little on the couch, doing his best not to look nervous while Peter rolled his eyes for dramatic effect. 

“Well, now that we have a window, Stephen, fire away.” 

Peter didn’t do many talk shows due to his independent and Shakespearean career. Stiles was too new and Finstock was too vulgar, and yet here they all were. Their agents had been clamoring to fully capitalize on their time in New York before they had to fly back to Los Angeles, and the compromise was a night with Colbert. 

In the green room Stiles had been considerably more sweaty and uncomfortable. 

_“Oh God, I’m so nervous.”_

Peter scoffed. 

_“What for? Late shows are easy, they are never going to ask you hard questions, it’s all a puff piece for them. Just don’t try to be funny, Colbert will take care of the ‘being funny’ part.”_

Finstock had wiggled between them and threw his arm around Stiles. 

_“You just leave the being funny shit to me.”_

Peter wasn’t nervous as Stephen played with his notecards, taking his time. He noticed how _still_ Stiles kept himself so that the cameras wouldn’t pick up on his anxiety. 

“Love the show, and I noticed something that really _struck_ me and it’s the use of color. Bobby is Mr. Lowry and he has no color, yet he’s in the world that just _oozes_ it. What does that mean to you, in the context of the show?”

Peter breathed deep and thought about the years leading up to him coming out publicly. 

He’d used Kira as a shield. They both knew it and even though she could tell him it was _“fine, Peter, I really don’t mind,”_ until she was blue in the face— Peter cared. It bothered him, that he was lying and that, in turn, he was making Kira lie. They’d go out for lunches and pictures would be taken and people would speculate. It was annoying and necessary.

It was also… selfish. 

_It’s not selfish to protect yourself, there are still old assholes who are executives who would shudder at having an out homosexual join their cast_. Peter had good reason to remain in the closet. He could easily ignore how tense Kira’s shoulders would get when he mother called, or the rapid-fire texts she’d get from her father around the most recent TMZ fodder. Kira insisted it didn’t matter because it wasn’t anyone’s business. 

After thirty-seven years living behind the illusion of being straight, Peter came out in an interview. He could breathe easier and Kira’s phone stopped pinging when TMZ rolled around. Once he was able to reflect back on how much inner turmoil had twisted up inside of him, he realized that for thirty-seven years he’d been letting this fear consume him. And it was abhorrent, to waste his own time in such a way. 

He glanced just beyond the band to where Kira and Danny stood off stage. He smiled. 

“I wished there was a show around like this when I was young. I think,” Peter’s voice cracked painfully and he powered through, “if there had been, I would have been less afraid to be honest about who I am.” 

Stephen sat back and a hush fell over the audience. Stiles, thankfully, came to his aid. 

“It’s about showing kids that there’s a big world out there with all kinds of people who have all kinds of perspectives.” Stiles’s cheeks were flushed and Peter’s throat went dry because he was so _beautiful_ it was hard to really _look_ at him. He gestured with his hands and the anxiety faded away into raw energy. Even Finstock’s fingers slowly dragged away from his mouth as their co-star continued. “Like, it’s like— life is too short to be afraid learn from others and to be yourself. Don’t be afraid to explore and learn… but more importantly, don’t be afraid to be yourself.” 

And, without missing a beat, Finstock chimed in. 

“Because the moment you start doing that,” and he _winked_ , “everything starts to look a little more gray.” 

Peter smiled and forced himself to not look back at Finstock and give the man a high-five. Instead he waited as Stephen’s soft “Oh wow,” was the cue for the audience burst into cheers and applause. 

_Nailed it_ , Peter grinned and twisted to share in the joy with Stiles and Finstock, _we absolutely nailed it._

::::

When she was little, Kira’s parents were eager to praise her for her maturity. Her mother would snicker when other parents would complain about their daughters being boy crazy. _“Not my daughter,”_ her mother would say with her head held high, _“she is very_ mature _for her age_.” 

That same so-called maturity was the reason why her mother recoiled from her when Kira packed up her life and loaded it into her car with her only destination being Los Angeles. _“What about a family,”_ she gripped Kira’s arm hard enough to leave red finger marks, _“don’t you want a family and children one day? Los Angeles is no place to raise a family.”_

Kira’s hands had been clenched into fists around her keys. She remained silent so she didn’t say something regrettable, and she wondered, as her house became smaller and smaller in her rearview mirror, if her mother regretted her “maturity.” 

Kira never thought of it as maturity, but more of a disinterest. Kira had vague memories of watching her friends chase and nourish crushes and romances. She never felt a desire for playing house and pretending (dreaming) about having a husband, a house, a dog, and children. When Kira dreamed, she dreamed in technicolor adventures. Why would she want something ordinary, when the _extraordinary_ existed? 

Her phone buzzed in her pocket. One from her mother, congratulating her on the parade. Another from her father saying he watched the Colbert interview and _that Finstock guy is pretty funny._

She pocketed her phone with an exhausted smile as she drifted toward their gate at JFK Airport. Their crew was sprawled out in a yawning, bleary-eyed spread. They had been in New York for ten days, and The Jim Henson Company bought their returning flight tickets for a red-eye because it was the cheapest. 

All Kira knew was that her internal clock was _fucked_. 

Her knees shook as she slumped in a seat, her ticket clutched in her hand as she hugged her backpack to her chest. She tilted her head back and counted her breaths, fighting the dizzying exhaustion that wanted to yank her into unconsciousness. She just had to last a little longer, long enough to get on the plane and then she could catch a nap. 

“You doing okay?”

The seat beside her creaked and Kira opened her eyes to see Bobby. He held two cups in his hands and was layered in four hoodies (“You don’t have a winter coat?” Peter had scoffed. “Who the fuck needs a winter coat, I live in _Los Angeles_ ,” Bobby had retorted, and Kira had to side with Bobby on that one). 

“I’ll live.” 

Kira sat up and pressed her knee against his, shaking out her hands. She did a headcount of everyone, her fourth count in the last fifteen minutes. Bobby pressed the hot cup of something into her hand. She pressed her palms on the side of it before she took a sip. White rose tea, no sugar. Her favorite. 

Bobby getting her white rose tea wasn’t out of the ordinary. During the coffee and drink runs, he must have heard her order hundreds of times, even when they’d meet up at the weekends, Kira’s drink of choice was never coffee. There were endless explanations as to why he got it and _still_ , her throat tightened as she swallowed. 

“Thank you,” Kira caught his eyes and smiled. “I really needed this.” 

Bobby waved his hand like it didn’t matter, like him taking time to memorize her favorite tea was nothing out of the ordinary. Like _he_ was ordinary. When people first looked at him— after the initial double-take— they assumed that Bobby Finstock was a loud man. And he was, when Bobby laughed it could be heard blocks away. But Kira also knew he could just as captivating when he was quiet, when they’d both been burned at both ends of the wick. 

She liked listening to him breathe. After knowing him for years— oh God, _years_ — Kira realized she enjoyed so many things about him, from the way his eyes would droop right before he took a sip of his coffee to the sound of his stubble when he scratched his cheeks. Her stomach twisted painfully when she wondered… if he noticed the same things about her, or maybe his interest stopped at memorizing her tea preference. 

It had been so long since Kira had felt anything more than flat, objective aesthetic attraction. Was actual attraction, where it was more than just a bored _they look nice_ , always so painful? She shuddered and when Bobby turned to check in on her, Kira kept her smile steady. 

“If I never have to feel this fucking cold again it will be too soon.” He stared at her, then got up without a word. Kira had time to put down her tea when he unzipped his first hoodie, then the rest of them. “What are you— Bobby, wait—” 

“I’ve got four and some blubber to spare,” Bobby’s smile was one of Kira’s favorite, crooked, tired, but still warm. “Hold out your arms.” 

By the time they were called to board Kira had two of his hoodies. They were warm and she ignored the pointed _look_ from Peter. Instead she focused on getting to her window seat. Bobby was in the middle, and Peter had the aisle seat. Kira should have been making sure everyone had all their bags, she should have done a final headcount, she should have asked Danny if he needed anything… but her eyes burned from exhaustion. She shoved her bag under the seat. She tore into the plastic that wrapped around the blankets and nudged Bobby with her elbow. 

“Come on, open yours and we’ll share.” 

He nodded and hurried to obey, bits of plastic falling to the floor. 

“Kira,” he found the button that lifted their shared armrest, “you’re a genius.” 

Peter already had on his sleeping mask, the one that Kira had gotten him last Christmas that had DIVA written on it in gold letters. The chatter of the passengers faded into a dull hum, and the last thing Kira remembered was that she smiled, tugging their blankets up as she settled back against her seat. She closed her eyes and her exhaustion was eager to finally claim her. 

Six and a half hours later the plane landed and the bounce was enough to wake Kira. It was a slow process, waking up. She let her breathing catch up with her and when she opened her eyes she realized her cheek wasn’t resting on her seat. She felt Bobby’s heartbeat, because that’s where her hand was lying. His arm was around her, a comforting weight, and Kira went from pleasantly drowsy to painfully awake. 

It was a wakeup call. Kira sat upright and gently removed Bobby’s arm. Her heart pounded in her chest and she quickly checked to see if anyone had seen, despite it being pointless because apparently Kira and Bobby had been cuddling for over six hours. Peter yawned. She heard Stiles in the row in front of her softly murmur, “we landed?” 

Beside her, Bobby cracked his eyes open. He stretched and Kira swallowed, hating her lack of control as she stared at the fabric that stretched across his chest. When he opened his eyes he only looked at her. 

“Hey.” 

The roar that had been echoing in her ears was washed away with his raspy voice and how it wove between them. The panic of _don’t fuck up your career, don’t fuck up your career, DON’T FUCK UP YOUR CAREER_ was put on hold long enough for Kira to return his smile. 

“Hey.” She folded up her blanket and pulled her bag into her lap. “How did you sleep?”

“Oh man,” Bobby rubbed his face with his hands, “I think it might have been the best sleep I’ve ever had. Is that weird?” 

“No,” Kira was light-headed as she shook her head. “I don’t think that’s weird.” 

She stood and slipped back into her professional producer role with ease. She turned on her phone and forwarded emails to Danny, she downloaded new storyboards to show Erica, and went over the latest draft of the shooting script. The crew armed themselves with sunglasses and when they stepped into the warm Los Angeles air everyone sighed with relief. 

They moved together, one chaotic family, toward baggage claim. As their equipment slowly made its way on the rotator, Peter nudged Kira. 

“Stiles got this adorable shot during our flight.” 

He showed her his phone. Captured on the screen was Kira and Bobby, pressed together under the blankets. Her arm was thrown around his middle, holding him close, and he returned the gesture. In sleep, the harsh lines in his face softened. Her head rested on his shoulder, her hand over his heart. It was a comfortable position, as if they’d been sleeping together for years instead of a single plane ride. 

Bobby’s fingers had gently woven through her hair. His lips were… just inches above the top of her head. Kira shivered and ignored the heat that bloomed in her abdomen. 

“Stiles deleted it, right?” 

“Of course. I had him send it to me in case you wanted a copy.” 

Kira should have said no, of course she didn’t want a copy because the picture meant nothing. It was just two people seeking body heat. It was exhaustion and instinct, nothing out of the ordinary. Keeping a picture like that on her phone… would be weird at best, grossly creepy at worst. 

“Yeah.” Kira’s voice cracked. “Send it over.” 

Peter did. As soon as the message arrived in her inbox, Peter deleted the photo. She grabbed her bags and before the merriment of the crew could wash over her, Peter squeezed her shoulder. 

“You should come over this weekend. Just you and me. Spa and wine.” 

_Damage control_ , they both didn’t say. Kira nodded and when her smile wobbled she hid it in his shoulder. 

“Sounds good.” 

It only took her three breaths to get back onto solid ground. She turned back to the crew, did a final headcount, before they went to line of cabs. Their group devolved into hugs, high-fives, and joyous shouts of “See you next week!” Kira gave out so many hugs she didn’t bother keeping count. 

When she got home to her apartment she tossed her bags down and kicked off her shoes. She took deep, calming breaths. She ran her fingers down her chest, tracing cold metal teeth until her fingers reached the zipper’s end. 

She froze. 

Kira still had Bobby’s two hoodies.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And an update! This was one I was looking forward to for a lot of reasons. We have some romantic tension developments!
> 
> Please let me know what you think, and feel free to hit me up on [**tumblr**](http://mia6363.tumblr.com/), I love talking to you guys!


	7. Affection and Guest Stars

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When the big scenes in _The Last Trolley Stop_ rolled around, Finstock found it funny that he remembered almost none of them. Not because they were boring, far from it, but because the _importance_ and desire to deliver the performance that everyone deserved… tended to make him focus so much that he blacked out.

Due to the popularity of _The Last Trolley Stop_ during its first broadcast, the second season was full of guest stars. 

Stiles made sure not to touch his face despite the urge to itch at the glitter that lightly dusted his cheeks. Guest stars were from two different categories, comedians through Finstock’s channels and musicians through Danny and Isaac’s reaches. Stiles swallowed as he watched them set up the big scene that was going to close. Through lighting and color correction, Tom Waits was going to sing, and slowly bring color back into a desaturated set. 

Tom sat in Stiles’s chair and tuned his guitar. He glanced up at Stiles. 

“Sorry, I just sat in the first chair I saw.” 

“No worries, I gotta stay limber anyway.” Stiles stretched and kept sneaking glances at Tom out of the corner of his eye. He didn’t get starstruck, not really. Stiles had learned to tune it out because he was professional and being starstruck was _not professional_. But this… this was different. He watched Tom’s weathered fingers pick at the string, humming under his breath to a song none of them had heard yet. “I’m,” Stiles’s cheeks flared with heat and he knew Jetson was going to lose his mind if his makeup became patchy because it, “I’m sure you get this all the time… but you were played a lot in my house growing up. My dad _loves_ you.” 

He did, Stiles couldn’t remember a time when Tom Waits’s voice didn’t crackle his voice over their record player on the weekends. In the summer when it was too hot to be inside, his father and Stiles would spend their days and nights out on the porch, the screen door open to let the sound of music drift out. 

“Tell your dad I said thank you.” Tom plucked the strings idly, no longering tuning his guitar as he lifted his eyes to watch the set. “You know, I never got to do _Sesame Street_. I didn’t think you guys would want me either.” 

Stiles stopped stretching and stood beside Tom.

“We like to give different voices a chance to be heard. That’s the whole point of the show, uh,” Stiles shrugged, his ears warm, “at least that’s what it is to me.” 

Tom looked around, his fingers idly plucking out a meandering melody that didn’t head in any particular direction. Stiles recognized that _look_ , it came across every new guest they had. His eyes swept over the colored fabrics, his ears perked up at laughter followed by a quick “okay let’s run it again.” It was an overwhelming experience. Stiles would still get shadows of it, moments when his chest would get too tight when he looked at Peter adjusting his cap, or the sound of Finstock growling out his lines to the kids right before they’d shriek with laughter. Every whir of camera, click of a pen against a clipboard, and the sound of held breath right as everyone stood on their marks ready for recording— all the components hid something strange, miraculous, and completely _theirs_. 

Each episode was its own dance that everyone knew, even with minor adjustments to the choreography that Kira would map out, show them step-by-step, and practice with them. The kids followed along to Peter’s breathing exercises, and Finstock sat still as Jetson applied a semi-sheer layer of glitter to his cheeks. Jetson and Finstock spoke in quiet bursts so that Finstock wouldn’t disturb Jetson’s canvas. 

“Stiles,” Tom Waits drawled Stiles’s name in a long, smokey exhale. “Could you tell me somethin’?” 

Stiles pulled up Peter’s chair so he could sit, leaning in closer to Tom. 

“Yeah, sure.” 

“How long has Bobby been in love with the lovely Miss Yukimura?” 

Ah, a question for the ages. Stiles let his eyes lift to see Bobby’s eyes stray from Jetson for just a moment, to watch Kira point to the lights that hung above them, murmuring to the ADs. She turned, and Stiles watched their eyes meet for just a brief moment—

Stiles had been on other sets where cast and crew would flirt and have flings as a distraction between long setups between takes. It seemed like an unspoken rule that fucking during breaks was normal. Stiles had also seen plenty of fallout among cast and crew because of it… but he never saw it at _The Last Trolley Stop_. No one was _bored_ during shoots. Everyone was so focused on getting shots, lines, and lighting right that the only time for anything like a playful tryst was either saved for after work or on the weekends. 

Finstock’s grin widened, for a moment, and Kira returned his smile, before they both broke eye contact and went back to work. 

“Oh them?” Stiles waggled his eyebrows and let his shoulders fall slack, his grin a lazy slant as he held Tom Wait’s gaze. “Their friendship is unreal. It’s not an easy one to get, you know? Sam and Frodo levels of following each other. They’re great.” 

Tom Waits’s eyes narrowed for a half second before he laughed. He hit Stiles’s shoulder and from across the stage, Peter met Stiles’s glance and raised his eyebrow. Stiles winked with a mouthed _Later_ that made Peter smile. Tom’s laughter quieted right as Danny cleared his throat. 

“Let’s get going, everyone to their marks.” 

Tom got up with a slight groan, dusting off his knees theatrically. 

“You know,” Tom nudged Stiles with a wry, cracked smile, “I think I’ll write a song about them.” 

Stiles flubbed his lines the first take, but after that everything went smoothly. By the time the day was finished, Stiles’s hands were beginning to shake after he’d washed his face. 

“Here,” Peter threw a hot pink water bottle at him. “Drink this.” It was sour and Stiles was sure it was some sort of home-made health concoction, but it did help him feel better. Stiles yawned and before he could think of getting out his keys, Peter opened his passenger door. “Want to come over for coffee?”

He smiled, a wry, twinkling grin that Stiles returned. 

“Sure.” 

Even casual sex was different because of their show. There was hardly any energy to juggle different people, and once seasons wrapped and everyone flew off to other projects it wasn’t any easier. If anything, Stiles worked _more_ , running from one guest-spot to another. Most of the time, when he would head over to Peter’s for coffee, they’d both be so tired they’d make out only to wake up five hours later, still dressed. 

The route to Peter’s house was familiar, one that Stiles knew now like the back of his hand. 

Years ago, the thought of knowing anything in Los Angeles like the back of his hand would have been baffling. A fantasy. Yet here he was, his eyes lazily tracking street to street, each long curve Stiles knew by heart. 

“Tom seemed fond of you.” Stiles kicked off his shoes in the foyer, toeing off his socks as he stretched. His back popped in three places. Peter hung up his coat and they both didn’t bother with heading toward the kitchen. Stiles went to the bathroom to brush his teeth as Peter leaned in the doorway. “You two whispering is going to blow up on Kira’s Instagram.” 

Stiles spit into the sink and washed his mouth out. Peter was already naked, face down on the bed and getting sleepier by the minute. Stiles stepped out of his clothes, leaving them on the floor because of how it made Peter roll his eyes. 

“Yeah. He took a shine to Finstock and Kira.” Stiles flipped the light off right before he heard Peter make a low, irritated growl in his throat. “Don’t worry,” Stiles’s knees hit the mattress and Peter’s palms were on his arms, steadying him. “I deflected. Said it was all the power of friendship.”

Stiles felt Peter’s smile against his the corner of his mouth right before Peter kissed him properly. A slow lick into his mouth and Stiles let the stresses of the day fall of his shoulders like water. 

“Good.” Peter pulled back and Stiles made a sound of loss. He followed him, his limbs getting heavier the longer he sank into Peter’s mattress. He yawned and Peter’s hand rested on Stiles’s chest, rising and falling with his breaths. “Thank you.”

Stiles shrugged. After a few moments, Peter’s arm grew heavy on Stiles’s stomach and his breathing had evened out. 

The next season of _The Last Trolley Stop_ would be its last. Stiles watched Kira and Danny trading script notes faster than bullets, finishing each other’s sentences and moving in tandem around set. They were writing partners even if they didn’t know it yet. Erica and Boyd directed music videos, and Isaac had gotten floods of offers for composing. 

Even perfect things ended. Like Peter. Once the show was over, Stiles knew it would most likely be the end of their casual agreement. Because Peter was all about moving on and _looking forward_. Peter was an out and proud Shakespearean actor. Stiles was a young actor who still got excited by booking commercials. Stiles was very much _not_ out. 

Before dread could gather in his stomach, Stiles closed his eyes and let exhaustion pull him under. 

Everything had an end, even something as beautiful as _The Last Trolley Stop_. 

::::

“I’m fucked.” Kira sat on Peter’s bed in her softest, most comfortable pajamas. Peter’s arm was a warm weight around her shoulders. “I’m so _fucked_ , Peter.” 

A few rooms over Peter’s washing machine gently ran, cleaning Finstock’s two hoodies that Kira still had. Every time she kept forgetting to bring it into work and every time Bobby would smile, crooked and bright. _“Don’t worry about it. Keep ‘em as long as you want.”_ Kira hoped he didn’t notice how pink her cheeks were, blushing like she was back in highschool. 

Kira had been proud of maintaining absolute control over herself. She didn’t have time for dating, attraction, or anything more than a short hook-up that was mostly out of boredom. Her passion had always been for her craft, for climbing from one project to another until finally, _finally_ it felt like her and Danny had something real to their name. 

Kira Yukimura was kind, ruthlessly dedicated, and a hard-worker. She had hands in many place and projects. One of the interns showed her an industry meme where Kira Yukimura was compared to Liam Neeson, having all the right contacts and skills to get a job done. Her reputation made her heart swell with pride. 

And yet… 

Her control would slip. Bobby turned her iron control into water until she couldn’t remember to start building a distance, to stop smiling as much, to keep every interaction warm but removed. She felt like she was sinking, unable to fight the attraction that had been growing without her knowledge. 

Except she had known. The first time she saw his reel… 

_“He’s **perfect.”**_

She’d done _nothing_ to stop it. Kira hadn’t realized that tears had slipped down her cheeks until Peter gently dabbed a cold cloth on her face. She pressed the cloth over her eyes. Peter pulled her close and his breath tickled the top of her head when he spoke. 

“Breathe with me.” Kira copied his slow breaths. His heartbeat was steady and when Kira took the cloth away from her eyes she felt less fragile. “You’ve thought about all the options,” Kira heard Peter’s wry smile, “there’s not a chance you haven’t explored every path.” 

“Yeah.” 

“You’re not going to leave _The Last Trolley Stop_ —” 

“What— _no_ , of course not. _Never_.” Kira scoffed. “You’d have to tear it from my dead fucking fingers. I’m never leaving.” Kira smiled, relieved that… that even her deep _yearning_ didn’t distract her from what really mattered. Every beat of her heart was a promise. She would never let someone come between her and the reason why she moved out to Los Angeles. Even Finstock, who she cared for… so dearly that it hurt when she let her thoughts linger on him. “I can’t… I can’t date him. Not while the show runs. And I’m not going to ask him to wait.” 

The washing machine stopped and Kira got up to move Finstock’s hoodies to the dryer. Peter followed her as they moved to the living room, to his balcony. A warm breeze washed over them. 

“Are you going to put some distance between you two?” 

Kira’s throat tightened at the thought of it, how she could go about touching Bobby less, smiling at him stiffly until he left her alone. She shook her head. 

“No.” It would hurt him too much… and her as well. “No. I’ll keep everything just as it is.” She felt her control returning, her fingers tightening on the reigns. Kira turned to Peter. “What about you? Is everything okay with you and Stiles?” 

Peter scoffed, though his smile was too slick, too charming to be believed in his own home. 

“Everything is great. We were clear what we were to each other from the very beginning. Friends who get physical.” Kira watched Peter’s eyes wander from hers, just for a moment. She squeezed his hand. “Really, Kira. It couldn’t be better.”

“Well,” Kira leaned her head on his shoulder, “if you ever need to work something out about it, I’m here.” 

Hours later, Kira stood just outside of Meltdown Comics, Finstock’s shirts gently folded in a spare grocery bag from Peter’s house. People spilled out of the store, giddy after the comedy show. Kira checked her email, went over storyboards, and looked at the script notes that Danny shared with her. She hoped her hands weren’t shaking, that her racing heart wasn’t obvious when an unmistakable voice called out to her. 

“Kira!” She looked up, and the sour anxiety that had been simmering in the pit of her stomach all day— vanished. She moved without thinking, throwing her arms around Bobby even though she had her phone clutched in one hand and her bags in another. He lifted her off the ground and when he laughed she felt it hum against her cheek. “Good to see you!” 

She squeezed him right before she slid back down to the ground. 

“You were great. I mean,” Kira watched his grin fade to a warm smile, “you’re always great.” 

“Nah.” He winked and Kira could almost convince herself that it was chilly enough to justify how red his cheeks were. “That’s all you.” A throat cleared behind him and Finstock flinched, stepping aside. “Oh shit, sorry, Josh this is—”

“Kira Yukimura,” Kira shook Josh’s hand. “We’ve met in passing, but I’m happy to do so more thoroughly now.” 

Josh’s grip slipped on hers briefly, his hair and face still damp from his set. 

“Yeah, I remember. Totally. I’ve heard _a lot_ about you. Nothing weird, just what Bobby tells me. And he doesn’t tell me anything weird.” He tore his hand out of hers to cover his face, almost knocking his glasses to the ground. “Oh my God.” 

Bobby was still laughing at him by the time they got to the Thai place across the street, the three of them sliding into a booth. Kira sat across from them, her shoes bumping against Finstock’s. 

“Really, there’s no need to be nervous. Once you’re on set it will just come naturally.” 

Josh blew out a long breath and roughly shoved some hair out of his face. 

“Yeah right.”

Kira unlocked her phone, swiping through her shared pictures with Danny. She turned her phone around, leaning over the table. 

“Danny and I have drafted up sketches of your character. We did two versions, one where you are with and without your glasses. We like how you use your eyes and mouth in your more extreme expressions. And that you can just fall and not get hurt.” 

Josh’s shoulders lowered as his smile widened. He scrolled through the sketches and slowly the color returned to his face. As Josh read over the notes on his character, his eyebrows shooting up on some of the more elaborate details, Kira kicked Bobby’s foot. 

“Here,” she held out the bag, “I _finally_ remembered to bring them back to you.” 

Bobby took a quick glance in the bag and the wrinkles at the corner of his eyes and mouth deepened sharply as he grinned. 

“Kira,” and Kira loved and loathed how just him saying her name felt like she was being pulled closer. He shook his head, his teeth exposed as his foot brushed along hers. “You’re too much.” 

_So are you_ , Kira wanted to say. Instead she just rolled her eyes with a smile. She had a feeling that Bobby heard her all the same, even as Josh finally tore his eyes away from her phone with a trembling “Whoa.” 

:::: 

“Well Geez-Louise, Isaac is that you?” 

It was a silly question because who else would Isaac be, but the voice that wrapped around the words made his chest constrict, his lips pull back into a brilliant smile. He turned, his backpack heavy on his shoulders and he turned to see Ol’ Lou leaning against one of the pillars at the Denver Airport. 

It had been too long since Isaac had come back, a building bubble in his chest and now that he was _finally_ back… it burst and he rushed forward, his sense of balance off-kilter until he had his arms around his old friend. 

“Lou,” Isaac’s voice cracked severly and the air burned in his lungs as he squeezed the old man tight. “ _Lou_ , it’s— it’s good to see you.” 

Lou had gotten shorter (or had Isaac grown taller?) over the years, but his warmth and the feel of his weathered, callused hands was familiar. A small part of Isaac, a silly part, had worried that his time away had changed him too much, that Lou wouldn’t recognize him, or worse, wouldn’t care to _try_ to recognize him. Deucalion had said he was being ridiculous. 

As always, he was right. 

Ol’ Lou pulled back. The wrinkles in his face were deeper, but his eyes shimmered with the same hard-earned affection that Isaac remembered. 

“Just look at you.” His voice was like dark coffee, a comfort and something Isaac hadn’t realized he missed. His hand cupped Isaac’s cheek that was pink from Colorado’s autumn chill. “You aren’t a skeleton. At least they’ve been feeding you in Los Angeles.” 

The radio was a distant buzz as Isaac’s eyes were glued to the windows. Not a lot had changed and he felt a small squeeze of relief grip him when he realized that he still knew all the roads, trees, and houses like the back of his hand. His breath fogged up on the glass, his nose cold as he pressed his face as close as he could manage as they turned down one small street after another. 

_It’s good to be home_ , Isaac thought, and his mind stuttered over the word _home_. Technically this wasn’t his hometown, he didn’t grow up here, he wasn’t _born_ there… but… 

Isaac could hardly remember the house where he’d spent his childhood in, and any memories he did have were not pleasant in the slightest. Technically Isaac had a father, and he was probably still alive in the town where Isaac had been raised. 

“So, how does it feel?” Lou’s boots crunched on the familiar path up into the forest that Isaac had frequented to collect sounds. He held his old microphone, letting it drift along Lou’s boots to capture the sound of every snapped twig, the rub of old denim, and the prickling scratch of his nails against his beard. “To be back?” 

Lou was a bit of out of breath, not used to taking long hikes, yet he hadn’t batted an eye at joining Isaac on a visit back to his old routines. His cheeks and nose were pink and their breath puffed out in the early morning chill. Isaac withdrew his microphone and ended recording. 

“It feels…” Isaac listened to the rest of the world continue its symphony around him. It was quieter compared to Los Angeles, though the bits of pieces of nature that Isaac hadn’t heard in so long seemed loud. “It feels good. I missed home.” 

Lou’s lips twitched, downward for a moment before he folded his arms across his chest. They had reached the peak of the first hill and it was easy to let silence grow between them as rays of sunlight lifted the fog to reveal their small town in splotches of greens and purples. Isaac’s heartbeat was a steady drum of _home-home-home_ while his fingers trailed along his belt where he’d hooked his audio-mixer. 

He had a week break before he’d be going back to Los Angeles to meet with Danny and provide more music samples and drafts. Danny had an idea for the season two finale that required special attention, but before Isaac could dive in, Danny had squeezed his shoulder. 

_“Before we do this, why don’t we recharge? Visit home, remember where we came from, you know?”_

The entire production was going to pause for a week before filming the second season’s final three episodes. The break was supposed to provide the cast and crew with room to breathe, but really Danny and Kira hoped the recharge would have everyone ready to return to film a hell of a closer. 

Isaac’s initial plan was to continue working, but it was Deucalion who suggested he return home to Colorado. He even bought him a flight and a new winter jacket. Isaac had taken the jacket with a worried frown. _Do you think anyone will remember me?_ Deucalion, predictably, had rolled his pale eyes. _Yes. Now stop being ridiculous and call me when you’ve got a spare moment._

“Kiddo,” Lou spoke like thorns were caught in his throat, “I don’t know where you’re from… but I’m glad that you found a home here.” He covered his face for a moment, sucking in a painful breath between his fingers. His shoulders jumped in time to Isaac’s heartbeat. “I worried about you so much.” 

For the longest time, before Colorado, Isaac lived day-to-day with only one goal: Survive. It didn’t matter how, Isaac would _live_ and he would do it on his own. He was fifteen when he stole his father’s truck and just drove, for as long as he could on the highway, until he ran out of gas. Until he got his hands on another car. Everything he did… he did by himself. Because his dad was a monster, because his dad kept hitting harder and harder. Because with every snarl, his dad sneered around words slick and poisonous like oil. 

_You think anyone is going to help you out, boy? You think someone is just going to come and take you by the hand, take care of you? You earn a place in my home, Isaac, no one just gives things away for free._

Before Colorado, Isaac thought he’d never have a family. His father insisted that family was only between blood, that Isaac had to love his father because that he was the only father he’d have. _There’s no other family out there for you_. Isaac knew his father was a bad man… but for a long time… he believed the words that spilled from his lips. 

A few tears slipped down Isaac’s cheeks right before he hugged Lou. Isaac couldn’t speak but Lou didn’t care. He gripped Isaac tight and they lingered in the morning light. 

The rest of their day was spent driving around the town, to the old pizza place that had rented out the small room above it to Isaac when he’d first rolled into town, to the library, and finally to Lou’s Diner. 

The moment Isaac walked in the doors, the waitresses shrieked and Isaac was smothered in embraces and affection. Everyone was so happy to see him… and something deep and torn inside of him was mended. He sat at the counter and hot chocolate was pushed into his hands. 

Family wasn’t just about blood. 

Later, when Isaac put his bags down in Lou’s spare room, fresh blankets on the bed with a quilt on top, he called Deucalion. He picked up on the first ring. 

“So, how is it?”

Isaac had to swallow twice before he trusted his voice wouldn’t waver. 

“Everything is exactly how I remember it.” Isaac kicked off his shoes and pants, sighing as he sat down on the bed. “You were right. No one forgot about me.” 

Deucalion huffed and Isaac could easily picture him spread out on his couch, his feet kicked up on the ottoman. If he closed his eyes he could see his lazy smile, feel his fingers brushing against Isaac’s face to catch on every line and crease around his nostalgic smile. 

_“Of course I was right. I’m always right.”_ Isaac laughed and tucked his knees up, chasing his own body heat as he settled against his pillow. _“Have a wonderful time home. I’ll be eager for you to return, of course, but for right now… take this time for yourself.”_

Isaac slept that night, and followed Deucalion Blackwood’s advice for the next several days. 

::::

When the big scenes in _The Last Trolley Stop_ rolled around, Finstock found it funny that he remembered almost none of them. Not because they were boring, far from it, but because the _importance_ and desire to deliver the performance that everyone deserved… tended to make him focus so much that he blacked out. 

The season two finale was no exception. It was a week of filming three episodes. The costumes were more elaborate and the second episode was an elaborate dream sequence by Mr. Lowry. Erica and Boyd were up constantly adjusting the costumes, airy and shades of black and dark greys that, when the dancers that Finstock would lead fell into step, they would all tear at the seams to reveal vests, slacks, skirts, and robes that dripped in color and iridescent beading. 

The final day Finstock kept his breathing even, went over his choreography and lines, and the next thing he knew, Danny shouted _“Cut,”_ with a wide, watery grin. Finstock panted, out of breath, and he lowered his arms just in time for Peter to slam into him in a back-cracking hug. Stiles quickly followed and Finstock could hardly see as more people piled into the end of the season group hug.. When he finally pulled back, his makeup was smudged, falling down his face with his tears. 

“Oh my God.” Stiles’s grin was brilliant and equally as tear-streaked. When he met Finstock’s gaze, Finstock knew that _they did it_. Again. Somehow. _“Oh my God.”_

The crew splintered off in exhausted, excited clusters. Everyone packed up and as Jetson cleaned most of the grey off Finstock’s face, he caught a glimpse of Kira winding up microphone wires. There was a smear of dark grey on her cheek. 

Everyone was drained, sweaty, and stepping out into the late night air felt like a rebirth. Finstock shivered, and as the sweat cooled on the back of his neck he felt anticipation tickle the bottom of his stomach. 

_We did it,_ he thought as Peter slung his arm around Finstock’s shoulders, _we really did it._

The first season was like a dream that Finstock didn’t want to wake up from. He constantly felt a mixture of severe intimidation and wonderment… because he was just some comedian struggling to make ends meet. 

Danny stood up on the back of his truck and whistled, sharp and high. His knees shook and his shirt was soaked through with sweat. Still, his teeth shone in the lights from the street lamps. 

“Guys,” Danny sat down, his legs dangling in the air as everyone crowded close. “I will have a more polished speech at our fancy cast and crew party… but just know… every single one of you has made me so proud.” His throat bobbed and despite the chill in the air, Finstock hadn’t felt warmer in his life as their director continued. “Thank you for all your hard work, every step along the way has been… more incredible than I could have ever imagined. What we have _all_ made together, today, is beautiful.” 

Finstock shivered, his fingers trembling as sensation returned to his body. He knew once he got home he was going to crash, _hard_ , already his legs were starting to burn from all the twists, twirls, and waltzes he’d done all day. But that was later. 

Now he was too busy hugging everyone, promising to see them at the formal party thrown in a week by The Jim Henson Company. Peter kissed his cheek, Stiles hugged him hard, and Danny gave him a high-five. And then… 

And then there was Kira.

“Hey.” 

She leaned against her car as everyone started to leave. She had taken her hair down and it was frizzy along the tips. She had dark circles under her eyes, her hands were trembling, and he was sure that his exhaustion was _nothing_ compared to hers. Finstock swallowed, waves of affection making his throat tight. 

“Hey,” he pointed to his cheek. “You’ve got some grey on you.” 

Kira’s lips twitched and her smile widened. 

“It’s all a part of the job.” 

He could easily cup her cheek, rubbing his thumb along the stripe of paint. His heart thudded in his chest at the thought of chasing that desire. Would her breath catch? Would her cheeks flush? Would her heart be pounding as hard as his? 

Instead, he opened up his arms. Kira’s smile widened right before she hugged him. Her breath was warm against his cheek as she squeezed him tighter. 

“I’ll see you at the party, right?” 

Finstock stepped back with a scoff. 

“You couldn’t keep me away.” 

She squeezed his shoulder and it felt like a promise. 

The formal cast and crew party was a week later and by the time it rolled around Finstock’s limbs no longer ached, but his nerves hadn’t settled. Josh waited for him outside and when he looked up from his phone he whistled. 

“Wow,” Josh waggled his eyebrows. “You look nice.” 

The Jim Henson Company rented out The Perch in downtown. He had to take two elevators up to the main hall. There was a wide expanse of tables with waiters carrying trays of appetizers. The bar was light up and had a crowd of the crew by it, and a DJ had been set up in the open space that had the entire skyline of Los Angeles as a backdrop.

Everyone was dancing, laughing, and Finstock slipped easily into the fray. Stiles was dressed in bright teal and yellow, his cheeks twinkling with glitter, while Peter had a more traditional suit and blazer look. They danced with the crew, together but separate in that careful, calculated way. Danny was in jeans and a t-shirt, and Kira—

She spun in Peter’s arms, in a flowing red dress that went down to just above her knees. She waved him over, and Finstock lost himself in dancing, going from song after song, easily twirling PAs and laughing until his stomach ached. 

By the time he sat down his limbs felt like jelly. 

He tried not to watch Kira… because he knew it wasn’t professional. And if Kira Yukimura was anything, it was professional. He watched her laugh as Peter spun her around, he watched her chat with wide-eyed interns, and he watched her lazily stir her straw in a whiskey sour. It would be easier if it was just lust, a mindless physical attraction… but it was deeper. It was how Kira’s eyes would shine when she laughed, it was how his name sounded when she said it, and it was how her eyes always managed to find him. Finstock didn’t just _want_ her… he wanted her to be smiling, happy, no matter what it meant for her to get it. 

She met his gaze and she raised her glass before she went back to talking to Danny.

A cold breeze blew over him and he wasn’t sure how much time had passed by the time Stiles sat down on next to him on the bench. He handed Finstock a water bottle. 

He chugged it graciously, wiping his lips with the back of his hand. The party had slowed a little, and Finstock didn’t feel _as_ old when he saw that Stiles’s cheeks were just as splotchy from exertion. Stiles bumped his knee against Finstock’s leg, motioning for Finstock to lean closer. He did, and Stiles whispered to him.

“Don’t tell Peter I’m telling you this,” Stiles’s fingers tapped on Finstock’s knee nervously, “but Kira definitely has a type. She likes _striking_ people.” Finstock couldn’t help it, he deflated, not bothering to be nervous that he was so _obvious_. Stiles hit his shoulder. “You’re not listening to me. She likes _striking_ people. Folks with odd features and such. Like… beauty out here is so maintained that it’s easy to be numb to it, you know? But Peter thinks she’s always been this way.” 

Finstock swallowed, his skin suddenly feeling too tight as he met Stiles’s gaze. 

“What way?” 

Stiles grinned. 

“You know, _particular_. Peter said Kira dated a girl once because of how her upper lip was a little bigger than her lower one, it just drover her nuts. Another guy was for his laugh. She finds these little details about people and just… latches on.” 

Finstock can’t help but think of the first thing Kira ever said to him, when he was painted up in grey on the first day of shooting. 

_Stunning work. You’re positively striking, Finstock._

Understanding washed over him and Finstock couldn’t help but match Stiles’s grin. Before he could say anything, Kira ran over. Her cheeks were pink and she swayed from the alcohol. 

“Move, I want a picture with both of you.” Stiles and Finstock slid away from each other so Kira could sit between them. Her arm brushed against Finstock as she unlocked her phone. Some of her hair had fallen from where she’d tucked it behind her ear. “Kiss my cheek on three?” 

Her throat bobbed and Stiles nodded. 

“Done and done.” 

Finstock smiled and when Kira met his eyes he winked. 

“You got it.” 

Kira brought out her phone and activated the camera. Finstock thought of the mixture of melancholy and accomplishment that came with finishing a season, and that they only had one more to go before it was all over. He’d been lucky enough to make it on such a colorful, beautiful show that helped kids break free of their shells. When they wrapped their second season, he got the feeling that _this was just the beginning_. Kira, Danny, Erica, Boyd, Stiles, and Peter… this was going to change _everything_ for them. 

She raised the camera and her smile was bright, the same smile she always had when they wrapped a day of shooting. 

“One.” Stiles shifted on the other side of her, and from across the way Finstock could see Peter glace their direction. “Two.” Finstock felt a prickle of heat spread across his cheeks and neck. He’d be embarrassed, but he saw the same flush spread along Kira’s pale skin. “Three!” 

Finstock leaned in and pressed his lips against Kira’s cheek.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FINALLY I've been able to update this fic. For some reason I've been in a darker mood than usual, so it was hard to get into the fluffy mindset for this. I hope it was worth the wait! 
> 
> Also PS: This year I'm going to be focusing more on my personal/professional writing, so updates will be a little longer than the usual one month. Thank you for your patience!


	8. Approaching the Last Season

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Production was paused for a two week holiday break. The new year would start off with getting back to work on the final season of _The Last Trolley Stop_. Their little bubble of color and laughter was going to end.

Silver fog gently swirled above the grass. Kira pulled the blankets tighter around her as she sat on her porch in her hometown. 

Inside the Yukimura living room the old grandfather clock tick-tick-ticked it’s way closer to Christmas day, and the walls still held the same sour aftertaste that stained Kira’s tongue whenever she visited her parents’ house. She tightened her grip on the blankets, soft music coming from her earbuds. 

The beauty of Los Angeles was that it was filled with people from other places. For all its vanity and apathy, it was a city that also didn’t care where you came from or what your social standings had been. Anything Kira had been outside of the Los Angeles city limits didn’t matter. But once she returned home… it was like the years had never passed. Old arguments, grudges, and wounds appeared like they’d never been abandoned. 

Every year her parents insisted she come home… but every year it was the same. _A small bit of success isn’t guaranteed stable work, you can still go to school, you can still come home, marry a nice Korean young man—_

Her father was always silent while her mother never stopped.

The house was only peaceful when they were both asleep and Kira could sit outside. Her toes were freezing and it was so dark, so quiet, not a single street lamp around for miles. 

_I want to go home_ , Kira thought, not for the first time, as she tucked her feet under the blankets. _Home_. Where she could walk to a Ralphs at two in the morning, where she slept to the sound of traffic, and where the expectations had to do with her career. Home was frizzy hair clinging to her headset, home was the sound of Danny holding his breath during takes, and home was the dry rasp of Bobby’s voice saying her name after a long shoot. 

Production was paused for a two week holiday break. The new year would start off with getting back to work on the final season of _The Last Trolley Stop_. Their little bubble of color and laughter was going to end. 

_Are you up for a quick call?_

Kira sent the text before she could get too nervous to stop herself. It was late, it was Christmas Eve, and she was _sure_ she wouldn’t get a response. _For the best_ , she reasoned as she took a deep breath that rattled her lungs, _he’s probably asleep or spending time with his—_

Her phone buzzed. Kira scrambled to get her earbuds in before she accepted the call. 

_“Hey, Kira.”_ She heard Bobby smile and wooden floorboards creak as a door gently closed. _“Happy holidays.”_

Kira felt all the muscles in her chest go slack, every tiny annoyance and _pain_ that came with returning to her hometown… vanished. She clutched her phone in her hands and smiled. 

“Happy holidays, Bobby.”

She exhaled and it shook more than she would have liked. She listened to Bobby breathe and heard him shift followed by the tiny squeak of a mattress. 

_“That bad, huh?”_

A year ago, Kira would have forced happiness into her voice, or just feigned exhaustion. She would have lied, shrugged off the concern and redirected the question. She’d been doing it for years, it was a reflex at this point in her life. She tugged her knees close to her chest as her vision burned. 

“Y-yeah.” 

Long nights of shooting meant brief, exhausted confessions in the parking lot, glimpses into the lives they left behind. Kira knew about Bobby’s brother, about the fear that his niece and nephew would fall into the same pattern of close-mindedness. It was only fair that he knew about her mother’s desire that Kira to do _anything_ else. 

Because in Los Angeles they were able to leave their backgrounds behind… but once they returned to their hometowns… it was inescapable. And it wasn’t just the fact that her mother _still_ had no confidence in her career, it wasn’t just the repetitive arguments and pleading for Kira to _think about stability and a family._

It was her last Christmas as executive producer on _The Last Trolley Stop_. She would be on another project, working with a new crew and telling a new story… and it scared her, when she was alone and things were too quiet. The uncertain future loomed and Kira felt her heart squeeze at knowing that she wouldn’t see Bobby everyday. Did he feel the same sour twist? Did he feel the same countdown hovering over them, ticking down one day at a time until it would be the last time they’d catch their breath in the Jim Henson parking lot? 

Every time he smiled at her, a thin wire squeezed around her heart, digging into the fleshy muscle with a vicious _sting_. The end was coming, and what if this was _it_? 

“I wish you were here.” 

The words were out before Kira had any hope of stopping them. She covered her eyes and tried to push her tears back, but it didn’t work. They left warm streaks down her cheeks, dripping down her chin and neck. Finstock’s breath caught over the line and she heard his voice lower as he got closer to the phone. 

_“I wish I was with you.”_

Kira’s eyes shot open in the dark, her breath puffing out in thick clouds. He wasn’t smiling, but he _meant it_. She was no longer cold. Bubbling warmth filled her, sparkling affection twinkled across her cheeks. 

“Yeah?” She sniffed, wiping her eyes with a smile. “I’d give you the blanket with all the holes in it.” 

_“Psh. I’d just steal yours.”_ They breathed together. Bobby cleared his throat. _“If I was with you right now… I’d make you a mean hot chocolate, my secret recipe. And we’d watch Twin Peaks and those eighty horror movies you like, the ones with the—”_

 

“Gooey body horror.” They said it at the same time, and Kira wondered if her affection for him would ever lessen, if she could learn to _not_ adore him so _much_. “I like the sound of that.” 

Talking to Bobby was easy, slipping between casual meanderings to intimate, quieter topics with ease until Kira’s throat ached and she realized that thin grey streaks began to lighten the early morning sky. Bobby yawned. 

_“All right. I’m going to go sleep under the Christmas Tree, see if I can convince Shelbie and Stuart that I’m just a bonus present.”_

Kira heard her parents stirring, getting coffee started in the kitchen. 

“I’ll see you on set, Bobby.”

After she ended the call, Kira took a deep breath, savoring her solitude, before she went back inside to face the holiday. 

Even though Kira came from somewhere else, when she stepped off her plane into LAX, the word _home_ echoed in every breath. The sun was bright, traffic was terrible, and police sirens lulled Kira to sleep. 

Danny was at the lot bright and early, unwinding wires and getting cameras set up. Kira went to work, breathing in sync with Danny as they built the set back up as the cast and crew arrived. Her room back home was suffocating and small, all the things she used to find familiar were suddenly alien and strange. 

Walking down roads she traversed as a child didn’t bring her a swell of sweet nostalgia. She knew her parents watched her, wanting her to feel that pull to _come back home_ , because a majority of people held a deep affection for their hometowns. 

The sensation of fastening cameras to rigs, the burn in her arms that came from holding a boom mic, and glittering colors that shimmered under the stage lights… it brought a sweet ache and made her feel… comfortable in a way that was difficult to describe. 

Stiles stumbled in nursing a cup of coffee, followed by Peter who hugged the first PA he could get his hands on. Kira and Danny were going over storyboards when a familiar hand gently touched her back. 

“Hey.” Finstock was there, his lips pulled back into a tired, crooked smile. “I got somethin’ for you.” 

He held out a thermos that was plastered in holographic stickers. It looked similar to the one he owned, that his niece had decorated in pink hearts. Kira took the thermos, her fingers catching on a few stickers of stars and planets. A few pink hearts did accompany the planetary theme, and she rubbed her thumb over one. 

“Did Shelbie do this?” 

Bobby rolled his eyes with a grin. 

“She was the lead designer but I did contribue a little. But, I made you something special inside.” 

Kira turned the thermos over and, sure enough, she could feel the weight of liquid. She shot Danny a look and he just made a motion of _go on, we have some time before we have to start._ She twisted off the cap and steam warmed her face. She held Finstock’s gaze and took a sip. 

Creamy hot chocolate with a dash of cinnamon washed over her tongue. Even as uncertainty loomed in their future, about what would happen once the third season was completed, Kira kept her movement, her drive, her eyes trained _forward_. The world kept turning and time didn’t stop for anyone. 

Jetson brushed the corner of Stiles’s eyes with a pearly shimmer. Peter led the children in breathing exercises and stretches. Boyd held a needle and thread between his lips as he went over Finstock’s costume. Erica hoisted herself up on stilts and barked out joyous directions to her army of interns. PAs ran to get lighting ready and cameras in position. Everything was in full swing, and Kira ignored the counter keeping track of the diminishing amount of times she’d be able to participate in the boisterous, chaotic, and elaborate dance that was _The Last Trolley Stop._

She didn’t have time to hug him close, to whisper a sincere _thank you_ to him, to feel his cheek against hers. She didn’t have time to tell him that she would treasure the thermos, that she’d use it and that she’d always think of him. She didn’t have time to let her breath catch, to let everything that she was feeling, _drowning in_ , well up in her eyes. 

Kira had scenes to review, she had wires to check, and she had schedules to adjust. 

Jetson shouted Finstock’s name and Danny cleared his throat. Kira gripped Finstock’s forearm and squeezed. 

“Thank you.” 

It was all they had time for. Finstock’s smile widened and his eyes had a shine to them… one that Kira couldn’t let herself look at for too long. He turned, heading to makeup, and Kira twisted to turn back to Danny. Her fingers skimmed along his skin, and for a few seconds, their fingers dragged against each other— a sliver of _exhilaration and desire_ — before they separated. 

Kira smiled and went back to work. 

::::

Peter’s fingers scrambled for a grip on Stiles’s shoulder, his nails finally finding purchase and digging in. Stiles whined, his hips stuttering from their rhythmic, brutal pace. Peter felt unraveled, his heart hammering in his chest and his cock hard, bouncing with every thrust. 

“Stiles,” Peter groaned, his voice hoarse, “Stiles, _please_.” 

They didn’t fuck like this all the time, hardly verbal and just racing to chase one pleasurable sensation after another, but it had been happening more recently. Stiles nodded, grunting as he pulled Peter by the hips, hoisting his leg up to drape over Stiles’s shoulder before going back to fucking Peter to near _death_. 

The wet slap of skin against skin made Peter’s eyes roll into the back of his hand as Stiles gripped his cock. When he came, his ears popped and he felt a distant satisfaction at how Stiles’s breath caught in his chest. He always made a tiny little sound, surprised and reverent, that sent delighted tingles down Peter’s spine. 

Stiles collapsed half on top of Peter, and rolled off to the side after a few labored breaths. Peter heard him toss the condom in the trash. As sensations began to return to his body, Peter rolled onto his side to see Stiles’s lazy smile. 

It was Sunday and really, they shouldn’t have been up so late and Stiles _definitely_ shouldn’t have been working as hard as he was. Tomorrow he’d be twirling and dipping Finstock. The last thing he needed was to pull a muscle because he’d been fucking his costar into the mattress like his life depended on it. 

Stiles’s fingers hit Peter’s stomach. 

“Rock, paper, scissors to see who gets the wet towel?”

“Next time.” Peter pushed himself up and refused to blush at how his legs shook. “Not all of us are nubile young men. I need to stretch.” 

Stiles cackled and he parroted, _“nubile,”_ as Peter stalked to the bathroom while flipping Stiles off. He could still hear Stiles sucking in air as Peter splashed his face with cold water and massaged his legs, smiling at the slight burn that throbbed in his muscles. He soaked a hand towel in icy water and didn’t wring it out nearly enough.

He tossed the towel onto Stiles and relished the shriek the young man let out. 

“Oh my _God_.” Stiles grabbed the towel and sprung to his feet, his grin all teeth and vengeance. “You’re an _asshole_.” 

He chased Peter and they ran like naked fools around Peter’s house for far too long until they were an out of breath lump on the sofa. 

Stiles was… the best lover Peter ever had. He took direction beautifully and once they got to know each other better as _people_ , the sex only improved. Peter hadn’t known how _wonderful_ it was to laugh in bed, to not feel the need to look his best at all moments. Sex was fun, but it was also silly and he hadn’t been comfortable enough to laugh with partners. Until Stiles. 

Peter hadn’t slept with anyone else since he began his agreement with Stiles. He only tried once, chatting up an actor on another set, and… the man had been so dreadfully boring that it wasn’t worth the effort. Peter would rather wait to see Stiles again than to feign interest long enough to come with a stranger. 

The growing maw of uncertainty grew in Peter’s chest. When Peter was alert he could easily keep his eyes off the inevitable separation. He could ignore how, as _The Last Trolley Stop_ grew closer to its final shooting day, the harder him and Stiles fucked each other. They gripped each other hard, like they were afraid to let go even for a moment. Peter wanted to be selfish. He wanted to wake Stiles up, to ask him to be _with him_ in a committed relationship. 

The more they were seen together outside of _The Last Trolley Stop_ , the more people would start to speculate, and the less hidden Stiles’s sexuality would become. 

The clock kept ticking, and Peter kept quiet. 

Finstock sat down on the bench next to Peter and jammed a straw into his juicebox. He held it out to Peter. 

“Want first sip?” 

Peter took a glance at it, and nodded, taking it from him. 

“Apple’s a solid flavor.” 

The juice was a nice, sugary kick. Peter handed it back to Finstock and watched the comedian as he drank it, his leg bouncing with excess energy. Finstock leaned back against the bench, his eyes sweeping over the crew that ate their lunches, at Kira thumbing through the script, and at Stiles and Danny talking in hushed voices before Stiles broke away and jogged towards them.

Peter and Finstock moved away from each other to give Stiles room between them. He flopped down, immediately laying his head in Finstock’s lap and draping his legs across Peter’s knees. 

Finstock smiled, easy and carefree just like it was season one, and not their final season. Peter couldn’t find traces of weight pulling at his wrinkles. _Surely he must feel it_ , Peter thought as Finstock rubbed his fingers through Stiles’s hair, rough and affectionate. _Our time together is coming to an end._

“Everything okay?” Finstock poked the worry lines on Stiles’s forehead. “Those whispers looked _dramatic_.” 

“Yeah.” Stiles exhaled a little too loudly, his smile too bright. “My dad is, uh, going to come visit in a few days. I just wanted to make sure it was okay if he came onto the set for a bit.” Peter didn’t flinch, but it was a close call. Stiles swallowed. “I haven’t played tourist in a while.” 

Finstock smacked his lips, running his tongue over his teeth as he shot Peter a look that, for the life of him, Peter couldn’t read. 

“Well,” Finstock winked at Peter just before he went back to scratching Stiles’s head, “I’m sure Peter and I can think of a few fun ideas.” 

:::::

Stiles’s sneakers squeaked along the tiles at LAX’s baggage claim. He watched as the screens announced different flights landing until _finally_ his father’s plane had landed. He exhaled, slowly, measured. _Everything is fine. Everything will be fine—_

A high pitched, breathy gasp snapped Stiles out of the worry that gnawed at his stomach lining. He picked up his head to see a young boy duck behind his mother’s legs. Stiles grinned and stood up. His peeked around their mother’s knees, his grip tight on her jeans. She looked down, then up at Stiles and her cheeks flushed. 

“Oh, _oh_ , I’m sorry, he’s little. Remember I told you, staring is _rude_.” 

Stiles waved his hand. 

“It’s all right.” 

He waved the kid over, crouching so he was closer to his height. The boy swallowed. 

“How do you dance the way you do?” 

_A lot of hours at The Sweat Spot where Finstock and I are constantly fighting off fainting due to dehydration_. Stiles brushed off his knees. 

“I can show you some simple moves.” 

When the show had premiered and everything in Stiles’s life had changed overnight, he’d been worried about being good with kids. Because working with child actors was one thing, but _kid_ -kids? Stiles wasn’t so sure. But Finstock said it was easy. _Just treat them like an actual person and you’re good to go._

Stiles swiveled to the tips of his toes, bending his knees and waiting for the boy to follow his lead. He let his body fall into the first moves he learned, simple ways to jerk and move his limbs with an electric grace. He helped keep the boy steady until a throat cleared behind him. Stiles turned, awkwardly hopping on one foot since it wasn’t easy to transition out of dancing into regular movement.

His father stood, a familiar world-weary smile on his face and his bag slung over his shoulder. Stiles’s knees locked and he stumbled forward until he slammed into a hug with his father. 

“D-Dad.” Stiles was dizzy, a mixture of elation and frayed nerves compounding together into a nauseating mess. “Dad, sorry, I was just—” 

“You’re fine.” His father pulled back and squeezed Stiles’s shoulders. “It’s good to see you.” 

His dad looked just like Stiles remembered him and he had the same steady pace and relaxed gait. Stiles set him up at The Mondrian and got them a two bed suite. His dad was only staying for a few days, but still Stiles felt nervous when he woke up early the next morning for shooting. The moment his alarm went off, his father woke up without so much as a yawn. 

“If you don’t want to come,” Stiles swallowed, “if it’s too early—”

“Stiles.” His father pulled on his boots with a light tug. “I want to see where you work. To… see what you do.” 

Stiles nodded, his chest still tight. 

“Yeah.” He grabbed his backpack and shook himself. “Yeah, okay.”

Cars filled the lot when Stiles pulled in. The sky was a pale, pale blue and Stiles shivered as a cool breeze washed over him. For a blinding moment, he worried that all the love and magic he felt for _The Last Trolley Stop_ was limited to him. What if his dad didn't see it? What if his father felt _nothing_ when he met his friends and saw his work?

Alabama was a lifetime ago. 

Whenever Stiles thought back to his hometown, the memories felt alien. Being chased in the grocery store parking lot for being different, dodging bullies in the hallways, and crying when he looked up slur after slur because he didn’t have to _know_ the word to understand that it was ugly and bad. The fears that Stiles had lived by, hiding himself in every way and it _still_ not being enough— Los Angeles never made Stiles revert back to his Alabama ways. 

He could finally be himself… and he just hoped that when his father saw the man that Stiles had become… that he’d be proud. 

Stiles led his father to the studio, his shoes clicking along the cobblestones. His father looked up at the German style buildings and brick walls with an awed sheen over his eyes. Stiles stopped at the door, the back of his neck hot. 

_Hold your breath._

He gripped the knob tight. 

_Make a wish._

His heartbeat thundered in his chest. 

_Count to three._

Stiles pushed the doors open. Warm air and noise blew his hair back. Jetson’s makeup cart squealed as he wheeled it from Finstock to their child co-stars, spinning makeup brushes between his fingers like pistols. Erica hung down from the lighting rigs, her hand outstretched to take a color filter from a PA. Boyd spun gold fabric around a mannequin while Kira went over Peter’s lines with him. 

“Stiles!” Danny shouted above the noise, his hair a tad frizzy as he waved his arm. “Boyd needs you for last minute adjustments and some lines have changed, I’ll go over them with you as you get measured.” 

He stepped through the threshold, from the pale, quiet morning to the chaotic, vibrant studio. He slipped into teal slacks and chatted with Boyd until Danny jogged over. Finstock shouted his new lines over at Stiles, which made the kids laugh and Peter sigh. 

The first half of the day was busy with elaborate choreography and set changes. Finstock and Stiles worked through an intricate dance that used sleight of hand to slowly change Finstock’s suspenders from being black, to a teal to gold gradient. By the time the first half of the day was done, Stiles was in danger of sweating through his shirt and Finstock’s breaths came in heaved bursts. 

“Great.” Danny clapped his hands. “Break for lunch!” 

Finstock slumped over on Stiles’s shoulders. 

“Leave me behind. I’m not gonna make it.” 

Stiles snorted but still stepped to the side when Kira rushed forward, pressing a damp towel to Finstock’s forehead. She whispered something soft, and Stiles turned away so he could say that he never saw Finstock’s flushed cheeks and adoring smile. His legs felt like jelly and he let the crowd of the cast and crew sweep him out of the studio.

Fresh air chilled Stiles’s sweat and he shuddered, his shirt sticking uncomfortably to his back. He staggered into the courtyard grass. His father was sitting on a bench next to Peter. _Oh God_ , Stiles’s foot caught on a clump of grass and he stumbled. _Oh God_. 

His legs shook as he bumbled his way to his father. He was out of breath, he could feel his makeup dripping down his face. Peter rarely had to learn the more complex choreography and Stiles felt a sharp annoyance at Peter’s styled hair, his easy-going posture as his eyes lifted to meet Stiles’s gaze. 

“Stiles,” his father smiled, his ears pink. “Peter has invited us over for dinner.” 

“Oh?” Stiles was proud when his voice didn’t waver. “If you’re up for it, dad, that would be great.” 

His father’s smile widened and Peter’s eyes left Stiles to meet his father’s gleaming grin. 

“That would be wonderful, Mr. Hale.”

“Please,” Peter’s smile was picture perfect, with a photo-finish that was perfectly constructed to be charming in any lighting. “Call me Peter.” 

Finstock slung his heavy, sweaty arm around Stiles’s shoulder. 

“Dinner?” He winked and pulled Stiles close as he ran his tongue over his teeth. “If I _promise_ to bring an assorted cheese and meat plate that may or may not be from the Ralphs by my house… can I come?” 

“Tell you what,” and Peter answered _too_ quickly for Stiles to buy that it was natural. Stiles’s lips quirked up in a smile. Finstock’s fingers were on Stiles’s hips and they dug in, just for a moment, a silent _We got this_. Peter rolled his eyes. “Forget Ralphs, just bring your _charming_ and _elegant_ self.” 

Finstock puffed out his cheeks and fanned his face with ridiculous exaggeration.

“Well, I’ll do my _best_.” 

Immediately Peter and Finstock devolved into familiar sniping. It was comfortable, like taking a hot shower after a long day. His father was understandably bewildered, and Stiles remembered feeling that same sensation back when he filmed the first season. _This is my life now_ , Stiles grinned, _and I love it_.

::::

Stiles had always been different. 

When Claudia had been alive, it had been a wonderful word. _Different_. Different held all kinds of possibilities, every creative avenue Stiles showed the slightest interest in was explored. 

Dancing? Claudia rented videotapes and learned choreography with him. Singing? Noah often came home to Claudia and Stiles belting out songs from musical soundtracks they’d gotten from the library. Stories? When the entire library had been combed through, Claudia and Stiles would sift through garage sales and thrift stores for old books. All these little things were _different_ , beautiful, and a wonderful unknown that Noah would baffle at how much he was _excited_ that his son was so… _different_. 

Then Claudia died. 

All the singing, dancing, and reading suddenly felt taboo. Noah had to work, had to keep food on the table, and when Stiles went to the library he’d come back with bruises he refused to tell who they came from. Noah felt adrift, drowning, in a sea of rage, the need to wrestle an answer from him, he _needed_ to know who _dared_ hit his son… 

_Don’t you cry, boy,_ he heard his father snarl, his hot breath a vivid, putrid memory against his skin, _no woman wants a man who cries. You get hit? You either hit harder or you say nothin,’ but don’t you **dare** cry._

He was a father, a grown man, and yet a few kids, unknown _bullies_ made him feel so helpless. _Different_ became a whispered word at church, one that made Noah’s ears burn and Stiles slouch lower in the pews. 

_What do I do?_ Noah prayed, less at church and more in the middle of the night. Not to God, but to his wife, hoping that she was somewhere, that she was listening. _Please_ , Noah would lay awake as tears drifted along the lines of his face. _Please_.

His son was wasting away in Alabama. He was getting skinner, the bags under his eyes darker, and Noah could hardly remember when he’d last seen Stiles smile. When had his son, his _own son_ , grinned without wincing, smiled without immediately schooling his expression into feigned apathy?

_Different_ was treated like a dirty word. When Noah heard his son creep down the stairs in the middle of the night, his whole life packed way in two bags, he knew that Stiles couldn’t take it anymore. When his son flinched away from him, unrestrained _terror_ in his eyes, Noah felt the failure of his own father weigh heavily on his shoulders. 

_I love you_ , Noah wanted to say, _I’ll always love you. No matter what, Stiles, don’t you know that?_

He hugged Stiles as he said, “I can’t stay here, dad,” and he responded with a simple, “Well… all right, then.” 

His son drove off that night and Noah didn’t start crying until he couldn’t see his son’s brakelights anymore. He sat on his porch and wept, shoulders shuddering because he should have _been better_ , he should have _done better_. Even if Alabama was wrong for him, Stiles shouldn’t have been so alone. 

_Wherever you go, whoever you meet… I hope you find a home that fits you better._

As Stiles pushed the doors to the studio open, all the knots that had been tightening over the years in Noah’s chest came loose. 

Swaths of sheer, opal fabric shimmered along the ceiling. Glittering lights were positioned behind twisted pieces of bright glass, sending wild splashes of color across the floor. Warmth from all the chatter and movement wrapped around Noah like a blanket, the kinetic energy overwhelming as he just watched his son _melt_ into this chaotic dream effortlessly. 

He blossomed among other flowers who were all _different_. 

Peter Hale, _the actual Peter Hale_ , opened his door hours after filming ended. His son had driven and parked in Peter’s driveway in a place he called Silverlake. Noah couldn’t help but stare at the view from the house tucked away in the hills. Lights shimmered on the horizon and Noah was breathless before an Academy Award nominated actor opened the door with a smile. 

“Hurry, I don’t want to leave the greens on the stove for too long.” 

Kira Yukimura was already inside, lounging on the couch like she’d done it a million times. Noah didn’t have time to worry about where to put his shoes or where he was going to sit, Kira was pulling him to the other side of the couch while Stiles offered to set the table. 

Within ten minutes, there was a knock at the door and Finstock and his friend Josh spilled in. That’s when the house got _loud_. 

“— and then the fucking _automatic flood lights_ turn on and it’s just me in this shitty toga using a stained sheet while this poor family had to come out and give me directions to the house I was supposed to be at.”

Finstock’s voice was sharp like a winter gale. Josh snorted, shoving his glasses back up the bridge of his nose as he grabbed sparkling cider to refill his glass. Kira giggled, hiding her smile behind her hand though the mirth in her eyes. Peter shook his head and got up out of his chair. 

“I’ll get more soup for us. Hold on.” 

Stiles stood, his chair scraping against the wood flooring. 

“I’ll help.” 

Strong fingers squeezed Noah’s arm and Josh’s big eyes peered up at him from his glasses, his shoulders slouched but his grip determined. 

“Oh man, you want a real gut-buster? Let me tell you—”

Noah had been the Sheriff of Chilton County. He knew that while the stories were warm, they were also a distraction. Finstock and Josh were eager to touch him on the arm, a silent command. _Look at me, listen to me_. It often happened when Stiles and Peter would go back to get more food or drinks. Every funny story, every loud laugh accompanied with a clap on the shoulder, and each refill of the Sheriff’s glass was a clever sleight of hand. 

He was tempted to tell them that he’d rather just hear their stories. He noticed how Peter and Stiles softened around each other, how Peter knew the rhythm of how his son spoke, how he jumped from topic to topic. It still tripped Noah up from time to time. 

Really, they just reminded him of Claudia, of how it was as though they had their own language, their own series of jokes, stories, that were special to only them. They could make each other laugh with a simple look. And between stories, Stiles would send Peter a _look_ , a look that would have Peter’s lips curling into a smile. 

The stories were to distract Noah from things he already noticed, like how Stiles knew where everything was in Peter’s kitchen. 

Dessert was an assortment of baked goods that Kira had brought along. Noah noticed that Peter knew exactly how to prepare Stiles’s coffee without asking. Finstock did the same with Kira. Stories softened from jokes into slower tales from hometowns, or merely casual observations that wouldn’t normally be shared as a part of something exciting. 

Everyone at the table was _different_. 

Kira Yukimura was sweet, deceptively so because Noah had seen just how direct and fast she could be on the set. Bobby Finstock spit out foul language with a Shakespearean elegance that made Noah blush on more than one occasion, yet he was constantly double-checking that everyone’s plates and glasses were full. Josh was more of a spectator, even tilting his voice to have a crackly, forties feel to it, but he never fell behind. 

Peter Hale had nice furniture, bookshelves filled with an intimidatingly eclectic collection, and yet when he laughed he’d snort and would often kick Kira’s feet under the table, almost spilling his drink to win a match. 

And Stiles… when he smiled it lit up his entire face, until the shadows of what had haunted him in Alabama were completely gone. 

The drive back to the hotel was quiet, good food eliminating the need for small talk. The cars melodic hum was a pulsing meditative device. He thought of how he heard the ladies at church _sneer_ at his son, calling him _that boy_ and wishing he’d done more, wishing Claudia was still there because she navigated the town’s social circles with ease. 

Google told him that outing his son was a bad idea. He had to wait for Stiles to come out to him… only he never did. Noah wanted to tell him it was fine, that everything was _fine_ , but he didn’t want to push Stiles if he wasn’t ready. 

He settled for hugging Peter goodbye with a whispered, “Thank you for taking care of my son.” 

Noah unlaced his boots, the mattress at the hotel sagging under his weight. Stiles sat on his own bed, texting. His shoulders were tense and slight tremors in his hands made the sheets twitch. Noah listened to Stiles take four deep breaths. Stiles cleared his throat. 

“Dad?” 

Stiles turned to face his father, his brown eyes wide and worried… but at the same time brave. Pride swelled in Noah’s chest. 

“What is it, Stiles?” 

“I’ve got…” Stiles swallowed, his accent coming out around the edges of his voice. “I’ve got somethin’ I need to tell you.” 

Noah Stilinski knows, and he feels his shoulders sag with relief. _I know. I know and I’m so proud of you. You’ve done so much… and you’ve found good people._ Noah flexed his toes in his socks to distract himself from how his throat tightened. _You made a home when I couldn’t._

“Well,” Noah squared his shoulders with an easy-going smile. “All right, then.”

::::

Finstock was uncomfortably full of good food as Josh pulled up to his apartment. 

“That was fun.” Josh yawned and slowed to a stop. “You know, I didn’t think his dad was that bad. Like, I was expecting the full Bible Belt caricature.” Josh’s fingers bumped on his glasses when he attempted to rub his eyes. His face rippled like a perturbed cat before he pushed his glasses to the side. “He was pretty chill.” 

“Yeah.” Finstock knocked his hand against Josh’s shoulder. “He wasn’t half bad.” 

Truth be told, Finstock had been planning for a disaster. Over the years, as he’d gotten to know Stiles and heard the kid’s story… about leaving in the middle of the night. Stiles never said the words _I’m gay_. Finstock didn’t need him to, he’d never require that, but he could read between the lines. His relationship with Peter was an open secret on the set, and just a plain _actual secret_ on the outside. 

Sheriff Noah Stilinski was… not the lumbering blowhard that Finstock had been building up in his imagination.

Finstock tossed his keys on his night stand. When Peter had pulled him aside and whispered _If I invite Stiles’s father to dinner, will you come?_ Finstock knew what Peter meant. _Will you help?_

Really, Peter didn’t need to ask. 

He’d been prepared to go to war with ruthless humor and teeth. Instead… he just had a nice dinner with a perfectly pleasant older man. Mr. Stilinski was happy to listen to various stories and ask questions at the right times. When he shook Finstock’s hand, it was with a small-town warmth that Finstock hadn’t believed in until that very moment. 

He washed his face and stripped off his clothes, scratching his stomach and yawning. 

It had been a nice night. Laughter, good food, better people… it left Finstock feeling warm, sated, in a way that he’d grown familiar with over the years. It was nice, the rush of addicting dopamine that came with smiles over dinner, hoarse laughter, and meeting dark brown eyes across the table and feeling Kira’s toes touch his ankle. 

Just a simple touch, a reminder of _I’m here_ and _I like you_ shouldn’t be the highlight of Finstock’s week but… 

Kira jumped into his arms when him and Josh began to head out. It was tradition, at this point, that every hug they shared would be a _full_ hug. He caught her easily, hoisting her up until he could feel her feet bump against his shins, her hair tickling his mouth as she _squeezed_ him. 

_“I’ll see you Monday, bright and early.”_ She slid from his arms and the affection Finstock had for her throbbed like a bruise. Her fingers found his hand and she pinched his thumb. _“It’s always good to see you.”_

Normally Finstock would rest his laptop on his stomach before bed, scroll through his emails, futz around, and then open up Pornhub and jerk off to something quick and impersonal. That night, with the taste of sparkling cider on his tongue, Finstock simply turned off the light and climbed into bed. He told himself he didn’t get his laptop because he was tired. Besides, he didn’t need a computer to jerk off. _I’ll just use the power of my imagination, like my ancestors before me_ , Finstock thought with a snort. 

He exhaled slowly, relaxing his body bit by bit. His fingers trailed down his stomach, and he closed his eyes. At first he just tried to recall a random face, a random body, and generic moans, the slide of skin on skin—

Finstock _yawned_. He wasn’t even half-hard and his eyes were heavy. 

His mind abandoned the mind-numbing exercise of trying to masturbate to vague ideas of a woman’s body. He thought about Kira, about buying her a vibrator at The Pleasure Chest. Did she still get drowsy when she masturbated? Did the vibrator help?

Instead of thinking of a sexy, disinterested woman, Finstock thought about the pajamas Kira wore the last time he went over to her apartment for a movie night. Red checkered boxers and a teal tank-top with a hole on the left side. It was a soft, worn material that would be easy to push up, his fingers skimming along Kira’s stomach. 

He effortlessly pictured her smile, the taste of it against his mouth, the softness of her lips and the slide of her tongue against his. 

_Bobby_ , she’d moan his name and Bobby would want to spend hours just kissing her, feeling her body beneath his, laving at her fluttering pulse in her neck. He wanted to hear her whimper, he wanted her to writhe, and most of all he wanted her to _smile_ and _laugh with him_ as they both struggled to get undressed, knocking limbs until they were _finally_ free of their clothes. 

_God_ , he wanted to kiss her. On her lips, along her neck, down her chest, across her breasts, down, down, _down_ , until her fingers were in his hair. Would she pull, would she caress? Would her hips stutter up to meet his tongue or would she pull him closer? 

_Bobby_. He’d heard his name said a million different ways… but it never sounded sweeter, enjoyable, until Kira. With a laugh, a sigh, a grin, or a tired rasp after a long day… Bobby never thought his name was something to savor. His heart swelled and he wanted… oh how he _wanted_ to know what Kira would sound like when he teased her, when his tongue would bring her closer and closer to the edge, every moan from her lips sending electric goosebumps rippling down his spine, every touch to his head a blessing, until her body would tighten, the heat would rise, and she’d—

His hips stuttered and his cock jumped in his grip. 

“Kira,” Bobby whimpered, “oh God, _Kira_.” 

Finstock panted, out of breath, his whole body tingling as the prickly flush faded from his cheeks. He was _satisfied_ as he sank into his mattress. Right before he was going to fall asleep, his eyes flew open. There was a _reason_ porn was an excellent tool to use. Everything was impersonal. 

Farther south, in a stuffy apartment, Kira turned off her vibrator, Bobby’s name still stinging on her tongue. 

“Fuck,” they both whispered, bodies still numb and flush in their post-orgasmic haze, “ _fuck_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahhhh. I just... I needed to get this next chapter out. I missed this story... and I hope you guys enjoy the update. I listened to [**Smile**](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TAjx0d-fda4) by Nat King Cole as I edited this and I got emotional.
> 
> Please, let me know what you think, all comments welcome!
> 
> Come yell at me at my [**tumblr**](http://mia6363.tumblr.com/)!


	9. A Series Finale

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “No matter where we end up, we’ll have always met here.”

Rangsey stood alone at the Trolley Stop on the hill. The breeze left a light shimmer on his cheeks, his golden freckles twinkling in the soft morning light. His fingers danced along the trolley sign’s pole. He rocked on his heels and looked down the long path. 

Mr. Lowry wasn’t there. 

Over the years, Rangsey realized that Mr. Lowry wasn’t _bad_ , just _tense_. It took a lot of work to keep the color from coming into his skin, onto this clothes, even though Rangsey knew, deep down, that all Mr. Lowry wanted was to be… himself. The Trolley would be there any moment, to pick them up for another day of adventures. 

Day after day, no matter their arguments or where their journeys took them, Mr. Lowry and Rangsey always rode the same Trolley home together, and would be at the same stop the next morning. The sky lightened from periwinkle to a warm honey-gold and when the wind blew through the flowers it left behind the sound of crystal bells. It was just another day, but Rangsey’s ribs were tight, his palms were sweaty because Mr. Lowry had never been late before. 

The tracks rumbled, shaking all the way up to Rangsey’s arms. He swallowed, and the Trolley blew his hair back, the door swinging open with the familiar squeak. The Trolley Man was there, and Rangsey’s legs locked because he _always_ went on the first train, but he had never been on the train when Mr. Lowry wasn’t there—

“Move along, kid.” 

A rough shoulder bumped into Rangsey and he stumbled, catching himself on the Trolley door. When he looked up at Mr. Lowry, his jaw dropped. 

His clothes lost their stiff, grey hue, his skin had lightened to a peach, and his cheeks were rosey and shimmered. His tie was a bright teal that matched Rangsey’s suspenders. Mr. Lowry rolled his eyes. 

“Come on, didn’t your mother tell you not to stare— _oof_!” 

Rangsey shot forward and hugged Mr. Lowry. The older man stumbled back, but his hand fell gently on Rangsey’s back. 

“You have,” Rangsey swallowed, struggling to keep his voice even, “you have _color_.”

“Well, it’s like you said: Everyday is an adventure,” Mr. Lowry took a deep breath, and when he pulled back it was with a luminous smile, “and I’m going to be _me_ for as long as I can.” 

It was like any other day, only this time when Mr. Lowry got on the Trolley, he did it in full color.

.  
.  
.

“Cut!” Danny’s voice was the gale that blew through the final shot of _The Last Trolley Stop._ “That’s it.” Kira sucked in a deep breath, her body numb and her eyes hot as she clutched her clipboard. In her periphery she saw the crew exhale as one, eyes wide and tremors overtaking their limbs that had remained steady for the shoot. “We got it.” 

Off to the side, Isaac fired up his phone, catching the waves of disbelief and satisfaction that washed over the set. Kira’s first few steps stumbled like she was just learning how to walk. Her arms shot out and several people were there to hug her, to cry with her, to press smiles against her cheek as it hit everyone that _it was over._

Peter lifted her up, crushing her in a loving grip that made her back crack. He wheezed, his breaths too short to form words. Danny threw himself into the affectionate flood, his hand on Kira’s back and she could hardly breathe, could hardly see because it was just a blur of affection until she was shivering in the parking lot, steam rising from her skin in the chilly night air.

Her shirt clung to her body and her hair was plastered to the side of her face in the places it fell down from her ponytail. The Jim Henson Parking lot was full of the crew, Stiles tossing juice boxes to anyone who opened their hands while Peter helped wheel the last of the equipment out. Danny sat in the back of the truck with Kira and helped her open a box of custom made and embroidered bomber jackets. Emerald green satin was stitched with gold lettering, for each of the cast and crew members.

“Kira and I got something for everyone.” Danny’s voice cracked and he sniffed as he handed out jackets. “Wear it when you want. It’s just… a way to remember our time together. These years… I can safely say, are the best I’ve had in my life.” 

Everyone put on the jackets even though they were sweating, even though there weren’t enough tissues to go around. Kira cleared her throat and everyone fell quiet within seconds. 

She thought of when she was a kid… how she listened to one suggestion of careers after another, different ways to make her family proud… and how none of them felt _right_. For so long… she felt lost. 

She saw shadows of that same feeling, in new interns, PAs… that look of _will I ever find it,_ and the moment when _they did._ The moment lights hit the fabric, the _click-click-click_ of the Trolley on its tracks, the sharp _crack_ of redoing a scene. Every piece of the process was a reminder that Kira had _found it._ The absolute love of her life, the creation of a world, story, and the direction of all the people who put it together… she _had it._

A cool breeze blew over her skin as she stood on shaking legs in the truck bed. 

_“The Last Trolley Stop_ started as Danny’s idea, one that he let me help with… and then once it was picked up, it became something much bigger. Every last one of you has built something great here. This was a project we couldn’t have done alone, and it was so collaborative that… what started as simple idea about a colorful conductor, became _so much better.”_

There was a looming feeling of _after_ approaching. Tomorrow Kira would wake up in the _after,_ and it terrified her.

For years _The Last Trolley Stop_ was her home, her breath, her drive to keep pushing through exhaustion until the day was done and they got their desired footage. Working with ADs and PAs to fix a problem, watching children become immersed with costumes, making sets with intricate design, and having Stiles, Peter, and Bobby breathe life into their roles… 

Nothing could replace the experience. 

“This is just the start for a lot of you.” Kira smiled even though her throat was tight. “There are going to be shit jobs, just ask Danny or I and we’ll tell you. There will be _shit_ jobs… but hopefully… they lead to jobs like this one. And I have a feeling I’ll be seeing you all again, over our careers.” 

Artificial apple flavoring lingered on Kira’s tongue. The air was slightly humid and the light pollution made the parking lot lamps unnecessary. The background hum of traffic that was ever-present was just another detail of _home._

Moments after they’d finished their pitch to the Jim Henson executives, Danny and Kira had gotten ice cream and thought _this could be something._ They also thought _this could be nothing._ It was the nature of the business. 

But their idea _had_ been picked. _The Last Trolley Stop_ stopped being a series of character notes and sloppy doodles of set ideas, and became tangible. Storyboards were drawn, materials were gathered, and costumes were sewn. After the first season, Kira stopped thinking that this was just a _moment._

It was her life. It was just the _start._

“No matter where we end up, we’ll have always met here.” 

Tonight marked Kira’s freedom, freedom to shop new projects with Danny, freedom to sleep in the next day… and a freedom to… have a relationship. If that was something… if that was something that was—

She took a deep breath and Danny’s hand found hers. 

“Just know,” Kira smiled as her gaze swept over their crew, and stopped on Bobby, “that you are loved.” 

:::: 

Peter realizes how _stupid_ it was that reality crashed down around him when he was folding laundry. 

There were plenty of times that Peter _should_ have felt the cold slap in the face of _it’s over, asshole, haven’t you been paying attention?_ Hell, he was one of the last people to leave the parking lot, and had confirmed that _of course_ he was going to the big cast, crew, friends, family, and guest-star party that was taking over The Perch in Downtown that weekend. Peter had emails and agreements signed about future projects and plays. 

On paper, Peter had moved on. 

Later that night he’d go to the final step, the big wrap party where everyone would dress up, dance, eat, drink, and be merry until they lost their voices. And the next afternoon, Peter would be taking a flight to New York to audition for several plays. Before any trip, Peter cleaned his house so he didn’t have to worry about it while he was gone, and he had just started folding the first load of laundry when it hit him. 

He had folded Stiles’s shirt, the one where he’d stained the back with a thick streaks of green paint because the young man was a fool and had dared to chase Peter around with paint-stained fingers. They’d been out in Santa Monica on a weekend during season two and Stiles had sat on a green bench that had been recently painted. Paint clung to him and Peter had laughed himself hoarse, taking a series of blurry pictures of Stiles’s shocked face, which quickly became blurrier when Stiles _chased_ Peter like a _maniac._

Stiles agreed to throw out the pants, but he kept the shirt. 

And suddenly Peter was on the floor, his knees stinging painfully and he couldn’t breathe, his chest ached, and no matter how much he _tried,_ he couldn’t suck in enough _air_ —

“Peter?” Stiles’s voice was distant, he was probably in the kitchen. “Peter,” he was on the move, his feet falling lightly on the wood, going up the stairs, “Peter, are you okay—?”

No. Peter was not okay. Peter Hale was an idiot. His chest spasmed just as Stiles came into the bedroom and immediately dropped to his knees. He knew so many things about Stiles, how he smelled after a long day of shooting, the noise he’d make when he saw something he liked on a menu, and the feel of his breath when he’d doze off on the couch, his head falling on Peter’s shoulder. 

_The Last Trolley Stop_ was over. The next logical step in that line of thinking would be that… that… their relationship would end. A relationship that Peter had defined as casual. That had started that way… and turned into sleepovers, dinners, and spending so much time together that Stiles’s clothes were mixed in with Peter’s. 

_I’m such a fucking idiot,_ Peter thought as he struggled to breathe. 

“Do any of your arms hurt?” Peter shook his head and Stiles moved closer, drawing circles on Peter’s shoulder blades. “Taste anything weird?” Peter shook his head again. “Okay. Here, breathe with me, in,” and Stiles took a deep breath that Peter struggled to follow, “hold it, keep holding, and _out.”_

Peter exhaled. His limbs felt less like static and more like his own. Stiles kept directing him in breathing, until Peter could wipe his eyes and swallow to try and stop his throat from being so dry. 

“Thank you.” Peter shuddered, rubbing at his chest. “I don’t know what the hell that was.”

“I mean… it looked like an anxiety attack.” Stiles shrugged, flashing him a crooked, off-kilter smile that always made Peter’s heart ache, wanting to pull Stiles closer, to kiss his cheek, his hands. “I used to get them all the time.” 

“You did?” 

“Sure.” Stiles laughed even though it wasn’t funny. “It’s a side effect of growing up gay in Alabama.” 

Peter swallowed back the wave of useless anger, anger that wouldn’t do Stiles any good. Peter couldn’t go back in time. Stiles had made it out… and he’d done it by himself. Peter settled for squeezing Stiles’s hand. Stiles smiled, wider, less wobbly, and kissed Peter’s temple.

“It’s over. The show,” Peter swallowed thickly. “I mean, I _know_ it’s over, obviously I know that, but for some reason,” he squeezed Stiles’s paint-stained shirt, “it just hit me.” 

Stiles went still, before he slid his arm around Peter’s shoulders. 

“We still have tonight, at the party.” 

Peter smiled though he knew it didn’t reach his eyes, and he knew that Stiles saw through it in an instant. He would go to the party, of course, and he would have a great time, _of course._ The plane tickets he bought loomed over him, the plays on the corner of his bed were a mockery of what he was leaving behind. Stiles got up, brushing off his legs. 

“I’m going to come out after the first episode of the third season airs.” Peter jerked his head up to look at Stiles. “I talked it out with my agent. It’s why I’ve been doing so many guest-star stuff on other shows. The plan was to… get as many people on my side when I do it.” Peter stood on shaking legs, his skin prickling as Stiles met his eyes, his chin tilted up a bit. “I’m not doing it for you. I’m doing it for me.” 

He’d barely finished speaking before Peter kissed him, the word _me_ breathed across his lips right before Peter licked over it. Stiles shivered, only tense for a few moments before he pulled Peter closer, licking into his mouth and holding Peter’s face. As though Peter was going to leave. As though Peter was going to push Stiles away. 

They had to start getting ready for the party. They had to figure out what they were wearing. They had a lot to think over. 

And Peter had to start packing. 

_I’m proud of you,_ Peter didn’t say between kisses, _we’re all so proud of you._ He kept kissing Stiles, over and over. When they finally separated they were both half-hard, lips bruised, and they knew they couldn’t continue. Peter committed the beautiful picture to memory, of Stiles’s smile, how his flush spread down his neck and chest, and how his hands still gripped Peter’s hips. 

When Peter had chosen to study the dramatic arts, it wasn’t because he wanted to be rich, stable, or comfortable. His parents were baffled, and his sister was upset that she’d be following the Hale legacy alone. Hissed passive aggressive remarks were common at the dinner table any time Peter returned home. 

_No risk, no reward,_ was what Peter had said before he’d left to finish his final year of schooling. He’d rather risk and fail, then wonder for years if he would have ever made it. He reminded himself of that bravery as he kissed Stiles one more time, short and sweet. 

“I want to date you. Exclusively.” 

Stiles’s eyes widened and his fingers tightened on Peter’s hips. Peter smiled, and allowed himself to hope.

::::

The moment the second elevator door opened, Stiles’s hair was blown back by music and laughter. 

Rainbow lights were strung up all along The Perch, one of Finstock’s friends was the DJ, and everyone was on the dance floor, many of them wearing the green bomber jackets. Stiles and Peter left the elevator together, running to dance, Peter finding Kira and Stiles taking Erica by the hand to show off his moves. 

Isaac did his best to sway with the beat with a cocktail in his hand, Boyd quickly took Erica off Stiles’s hands when Stiles needed a break, and that was how he ended up drinking water next to Kira on a bench. 

She twisted her rings on her fingers, her gaze fixed on the entrance. Her eyes were shining, and it could be exertion and general merriment, but Stiles also noticed the one cast member who hadn’t arrived yet. Stiles bumped his foot against hers. 

“What’s next on your plate, boss?” 

The words did exactly what Stiles wanted them to. Kira snorted and rolled her eyes. 

“Quit calling me boss.” She punched his shoulder before she smiled and leaned against him for a bit. “Danny and I are shopping a few things around,” she exhaled and the air trembled, “I think we’ll get an offer for a feature from a few places. With a small budget of course,” her smile widened into a luminous grin that Stiles had often seen after a great day of shooting. “But I think we’ll be fine.” 

Stiles knew she would be. He could see it in how her and Danny would still get excited over exchanging sketches, how they’d make new inside jokes and finished each other’s sentences like they were twins separated at birth. 

They both were quiet as they turned to look at the dance floor. Everyone was twisting to the music, smiling, laughing, and leaning on each other to the beat. It was their last night, and people were certainly partying like it. Kira finished her water and nudged him with her elbow. 

“What about you?”

Stiles took a deep breath while Kira waited, patient and kind. He rested his elbows on his knees the way his dad used to when he’d help Stiles with math problems. 

There was no telling what was going to happen. He’d been doing a lot of guest spots and it all hinged on how his coming out would go. His father knew, so the scariest part was over. Everything else… everything else Stiles would work around. 

“I’m not sure. And I’m okay with that. I know that I am where I’m supposed to be.” Alabama had been okay when his mother was alive to help guide him with his interests, but the moment she was gone it was as though his entire town had changed. Playing outside was scary because kids could see him and come pick on him, walking home from school was dangerous because people could slow down and yell at him. “I left my hometown, you know. I was going to, I was going to run away in the middle of the night but my dad knew. He waited up for me… and he let me go.” Stiles took a deep breath, doing his best to speak despite his tight throat. “I would have died if I stayed there.” 

Kira’s hand tightened in his. 

“You didn’t. You’re here now.” Kira let him go, wiping her eyes. “I can only be myself. That’s what I told my mother. There’s only one me, and I can’t change who I am, what interests me… what really _drives me_. So I came here.” Kira ducked her head down, her smile stiff. “My mom said I’d never have a family in a place like this. I was fine with that… but you know, I think she was being too traditional with the definition.” 

Stiles pulled her into a hug, one that she returned tightly, pressing the air from his lungs.

“We’ll figure it out,” her breath tickled his ear. “People are going to want to see more of you.” 

It sounded like a promise. Kira pulled back, her cheeks rosy and Stiles thought, _that’s better._ She turned, and her body froze. 

Panting in the entrance to the Perch’s rooftop lounge, was Finstock. 

:::::

_Know that you are loved._

Finstock felt as though he’d been cut down on the knees stripped bare. His heart thundered in his chest and he had a hard time breathing as Kira wrapped up her speech. There were hugs, so many hugs, and Finstock went back to his apartment alone. 

Comedy had started as an escape, a window into a better world than his hometown. Comedians who swore, who talked openly about sexuality, politics, and they spoke about them with _fire._

Laughter helped. It helped when his father barely looked at him anymore, when his mother would sigh “Robert,” like she didn’t know where she went wrong. It helped when his brother got married to his high school sweetheart and the wedding felt less like a celebration and more like an assignment. 

Just because Finstock loved to laugh didn’t make comedy easy. He bombed _a lot_ when he first started. He _still_ would wake up in a cold sweat with the memory of never-ending silence speckled with pitying whispers fresh in his mind. 

Every failure, every agonizing set that went nowhere… it was worth it for every hit. Every laugh was a rush more satisfying than anything Finstock had ever experienced. 

That _clap_ of silence right before the punchline _hit,_ that momentary hush before the roars of laughter… Finstock lived for that high. He got goosebumps chasing it, reworking material to make it last, to keep them breathless because that was the kind of laughter that felt the best. He ignored bills, phone calls, and hunger pains to chase that laughter.

He became an addict chasing the laughter. 

Alcohol was the start. Avoiding alcohol at gigs was impossible. And Finstock hadn’t been concerned about it. He was young. Partying was fun, and shots gave him a feeling that was _close_ to getting laughs. He drank and laughed with his friends, and he kept working until he went to meet a colleague for breakfast at a shitty dive diner, and the waitress recoiled at his breath. 

For years he clawed his way through getting sober _and_ still persuing comedy, even though folks he’d called his friends said that sobriety wouldn’t get him laughs. They said it like it was nothing, like they weren’t gutting him. 

He worked, and he worked, and he worked…

Somehow he landed a spot on a kid’s show, and nothing was the same after that. 

Finstock wore a neon button down t-shirt that Stiles got him mostly because of how much Peter _hated_ the pattern. He had his nails freshly painted black, and pulled on pink pants before he was out of the door, before he could second-guess his night away. He called an Uber and texted Josh _Wish me luck._

Four second passed before his phone pinged with a _holy shit, good luck!_

The first season of _The Last Trolley Stop_ went by quickly, mostly because Finstock was scared out of his mind that he was going to fuck it up. He wasn’t an actor. He never aimed to be, and suddenly he was memorizing lines and hitting marks so he could be in frame next to _Peter Hale._ HIs mind was swimming with anxiety of not wanting to let anyone down, because everywhere he turned was a person who was _talented,_ whose career could be made or _broken_ because of him. 

Honestly… he was surprised he didn’t lapse in his sobriety during the first season. He’d been that terrified. 

Kira Yukimura was the first person he’d heard from. An innocuous email about further screen testing, and then he was able to put a face to the name. The more he worked, the more he saw her, and the more he saw her… 

The more he wanted to stay.

The second season was easier. He was more confident. He spent months at The Sweat Spot in dancing lessons with Stiles. Danny wanted to expand his character. When they got coffee, he saw that something had changed in them both. Kira had a fire in her eyes, her words were more pronounced, like she was walking a thin line between rage and bliss. Danny blocked out the character arc and Finstock remembered how the back of his neck broke out in goosebumps. The same kind of goosebumps that appeared when he’d meet Kira’s eyes and she’d smile. 

_Know that you are loved._

The third season was over. The show was over. 

Finstock got out of the car. He was sweating, his hands were shaking, and he had a text from Lydia that read _Are you here yet? The DJ is killing it._ The doorman lit up when he saw Finstock, a slight widening of his eyes as a smile broke out across his face. 

“Right this way, Mr. Finstock.” 

Finstock had been to The Perch a couple of times before, mostly with Lydia. There were two elevators, and Finstock had thirteen floors to get his breathing under control, to fight back waves of nausea. 

Kira Yukimura was like him, except instead of chasing laughs she chased stories. She never lost focus, her voice never wavered, and she was the steady presence behind the camera that stopped Finstock from shaking apart whenever he flubbed a line or missed a step in choreography. Storytelling was all she needed. Comedy was all Finstock needed. They lived for their careers and they loved it. 

Finstock hadn’t wanted anything more than what he had. 

The elevator doors opened. A second attendant was there to meet him. Finstock pulled at his obnoxious shirt. He felt like there was a hummingbird in his chest. God, he had always felt tension, of _course_ he did, but shouldn’t it feel less now that he wanted to actually _do something_ about it, right? 

He walked to the second elevator, only to be greeted by Tom fucking Waits.

“Hell- _o_.” Finstock knew he shouldn’t be starstruck. He worked with the man, and it was fine. He flinched, and an ice-cold chill went down his body. Tom smiled wider in the dark. “Going up?” 

“Yeah.” The attendant called the elevator, and Finstock and Tom stepped inside. Oddly enough, the shock of seeing Tom Waits slowed him down, anchored him as the elevator doors slid shut. “I’m surprised you came. Thought you’d be in the studio, singing about cigarettes and shadows.” 

Whiskey-smoke laughter filled the elevator as Tom slugged him in the arm. 

“And pass this party up? No way.” He looked him over. “You look good. Nice shirt.” 

As the elevator crawled up, the sound of music got louder and louder. Finstock’s stomach tightened. He was sweating again. 

“T-Thanks.” 

A calloused, world-weary hand fell on Finstock’s shoulder and squeezed. Tom’s eyes glittered and the elevator doors opened with a cheery _ding._

“You’ll be fine.” 

His ears burned and Finstock knew he blushed like a tomato. He didn’t have time to worry about how obvious he must have been, for so long, if Tom Waits was cheering him on. He just swallowed with a nod and stepped into the hallway, the music getting louder the faster he walked. 

When he finally made it to the party, it was in a roaring full swing. Erica and Boyd were going wild in a mosh pit, Danny was filming it all on his phone, and Isaac swayed next to the DJ. Multi-colored lights twinkled against the Los Angeles skyline. Guest stars were jumping to the beat, and the crew was spilling over each other, merry and luminous. Finstock cared about it all, he did, but the moment he saw Kira, he knew everyone else would have to wait. 

Her eyes met his immediately, like they always did on set, in the parking lot, or at the end of a long day. 

His legs shook as he walked to her, as she stood up and matched his pace. His hands shook when he reached for her, to take her hands into his because—

Because Finstock had regrets, he’d had to make his own way through some terrible things. There had been times, when withdrawals wracked his body, when jokes refused to land, when his hands shook too hard to hold a pencil to write down his new material… there were so many times when he almost turned back, gave up, when he thought he’d never get better, that everything that had happened would be the best it ever got. There were times when he wished none of it had ever happened, and yet…

Yet now, he wouldn’t change one moment, one fuck-up, because it all brought him here.

It led him here, to _The Last Trolley Stop,_ and to her. Knowing Kira was an experience, just as magical and consuming as the show. If she never wanted to see him again, if their lives never crossed again… Finstock would still be forever changed, as he was sure she had changed so many people in her life. 

Kira’s hands were warm in his, and they shook in his fingers when he squeezed. 

He was a better person because of her. He was happier. And he would continue to be, just knowing that she was out in the world, shaping stories and moving forward. He just wanted her to know that he felt so much for her, from grandiose endearment, to quieter affection. Because he adored her, he adored her when she was doing last-minute blocking, when she’d laugh when a hair tie would snap in her hands, and when she’d lean against him in the parking lot, just breathing against his shoulder. 

Finstock took a breath and he spoke… and for the life of him, he didn’t remember what he said, as words kept pouring out of his mouth, Kira gripped his hands tighter and tighter. Somehow, he didn’t stammer and never looked away from her eyes. He smiled, even as his chest throbbed, as the music faded away into hushed silence. He didn’t complete her. She didn’t complete him. She was already whole and had been doing fine before him, and would do great things after him. 

Tears streaked down Kira’s cheeks. 

Finstock’s eyes widened. She took her hands away from his. He drew in breath, to apologize for whatever he said that made her upset—

One of her hands fell on his shoulders and an apology was still on his tongue as she pulled him forward into a kiss.

The first thing he thought was _she’s so soft._ It was sensory overload, he was trying to focus on her lips, but he wanted to remember how her hand shook on his shoulder, how the other had caught on his shirt like he would _ever_ pull away from her. Finstock made a sound, deep in his throat as his eyes slipped shut, as he followed her when she parted for breath, to bring her in for more. He wiped away her tears with his thumb and marveled at how her smile felt against his. 

Applause made them pull apart. Stiles whooped, jumping up and down like a lunatic as Peter clapped, his smile wide. 

“Oh my God,” Kira groaned, though her smile made Finstock’s heart stutter. 

“All right,” Finstock shouted with a grin as he waved his hand in a ‘shoo’ motion. “Show’s over, folks!”

“You kiddin’?” Stiles waggled his eyebrows. “The show is just starting!” 

Finstock flipped him off as Kira laughed, hard enough that she had to cling to his arm and lean her weight against him. He leaned back and then realized that he hadn’t been imagining the music dying down. Sure enough, the DJ’s hand hovered over his equipment, like he wasn’t sure if he could play music again. Finstock blushed, but he couldn’t stop grinning if he tried. 

“Come on, bring back the music, I want to dance!” 

The music roared to life and he turned back to Kira. Behind him, he could hear Stiles chattering away and Peter’s low, witty additions. Kira met his eyes easily as Finstock whispered. 

“I’m not dreaming right? This is really happening?” 

Kira snorted and her hand went up to wipe his cheeks, to gently take away the tears that Finstock didn’t remember shedding. 

“You’re not dreaming.” 

He kissed her because he’d been wanting to for _years,_ and now he finally _could._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AHHHHHHHHHHH.
> 
> So obviously this is not the end of the story, but it is the end of their little show. We have two more chapters left, I'm really excited to get to them. Again, sorry for the long wait between updates, I've been traveling and working on professional works. Thanks for your patience, and I hope this update was worth it. 
> 
> Artwork is by trashyscarface, check out their tumblr, they're amazing. 
> 
> I've been listening to Good Old Days by Macklemore and Kesha while writing this, getting all emotional about these sweethearts, all these feelings, hopes, and dreams. 
> 
> Please, please let me know what you think, even if you didn't like it!


	10. The Last Trolley Stop

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When the first season of _The Last Trolley Stop_ had aired, Finstock knew that everyone’s trajectory was going to change, but he never gave himself that thought. He never let himself think that he’d be strapped to the same vehicle, that instead of watching his new friends grow and soar to new heights, that they’d be doing it _together._

Danny’s voice was still hoarse when he pulled into the Jim Henson studio parking lot on Monday morning. The hangover had subsided, but the ache in his muscles and jaw remained. Echoes of music still throbbed in his ears, the pull of a smile still tugging at his lips, and countless goodbyes and well wishes still stained his tongue. It had been a wonderful night. A magical night. A cathartic farewell to years they’d all spent on a single show. He’d danced as hard as he cried. 

His feet ached when he stepped out of his car. 

Kira leaned against her car, in her work jeans and a loose t-shirt. Her sunglasses didn’t hide her puffy eyes and her wobbling smile. 

“Hey.” Her voice was just as wrecked as he fell into her arms. She was at least a foot shorter than him, but in terms of who could endure more… Kira won every time. His cheek pressed against her shoulder, pushing closer when her fingers pressed against his back. “It’s all right, Danny.”

He shuddered against her, sobs lodged in his throat. She was right. Even though _The Last Trolley Stop_ was over, the world still turned. Their careers were young, this show a sapling that would later help them grow into something tall. Her lips pressed against his temple, her arms holding him close until he could breathe again. 

It was difficult not to think of all the seemingly random occurrences that brought him here. If he hadn’t seen that VHS of _E.T._ , if he hadn’t gotten the Facebook invite to Erica and Boyd’s courthouse wedding, if he hadn’t taken that PA gig that was miserable on that shitty sitcom where his only solace was another PA who looked just as existentially torn as him— 

If he hadn’t gotten that cupcake on a whim, if he hadn’t reached out to the PA thinking, _her name is Kira, isn’t it,_ before he went looking for her.

All these little pieces, seemingly random and awkwardly shaped or cut… that fell into place perfectly. His ribs ached, his cheeks were raw, and his hands shook when he pulled back. The sound of a loud, sputtering pick-up made Kira smile, Erica’s old-as-dirt truck coming to a stop outside of the studio. 

Breaking down the set was one of the hardest moments in Danny’s life. 

Swaths of gold, glimmers of emerald, were carefully taken apart, separated into sections, and moved to the back of their cars until the rented equipment was to one side where the studio would take care of it… and the rest…

Erica, Boyd, Kira, and Danny carried out the remains, a silent rite as they loaded up their cars. 

The truck bed door squeaked as Erica locked it into place. Boyd pulled in Kira for a bone-popping hug. 

“What are you guys working on next?”

The future used to be nebulous, an endless stream of _please let me be hired,_ but now… now Danny and Kira’s week was filled with meetings with different production companies and financiers. They would leave the editing bays and polish the script they’d finished months ago, while preparing treatments for other stories. 

“A feature,” Kira shivered, her cheek resting against Boyd’s chest as she squeezed Erica’s hand. “Lower budget… but a feature.” 

Erica slung her arm around Danny’s shoulder. 

“We uh… We got accepted into the Sundance Directors Lab.” She swallowed. “Watching you guys work… we were inspired and we thought we’d give it a shot and they are gonna take us on.” 

Danny hugged Erica close. 

“You’re going to do great.” He pulled back, his heart heavy but tomorrow it would lighten, little by little. “We’ll see you around.” 

Danny and Kira had their first meeting in just a few hours, all the way in Studio City. Danny would shove the bits and pieces of the Trolley into his bedroom. Kira would take the rest, and they’d both reconvene in the NBC lobby. 

That morning, as time ticked away, Danny and Kira lingered, sparing a few extra minutes, to remain in their friends’ embrace. 

:::: 

Remnants of glitter still clung to Peter’s skin. 

The sheets had slipped down to his waist in the middle of the night, goosebumps rising on his skin as each breath made him more awake. His legs ached from dancing, he could still taste champagne on his tongue, and Kira’s lipstick was smudged against his cheek. 

Ghostly sensations of the party still echoed on his body. Talking loudly to be heard above the music, dancing for hours, and frantically telling the DJ to lower the music once Finstock stumbled out to the patio with red cheeks and a bashful smile. Shivering when Stiles’s hand found his and squeezed as Finstock was blind to the rest of them, somehow managing to not stammer over… some of the most romantic and genuine words Peter had ever heard. 

When Kira kissed Bobby, Peter had cheered, not caring that he sounded like an absolute maniac. 

Kira Yukimura, the young woman who’d stolen his attention so many years ago, was allowing herself the risk of happiness. It was a conversation they’d had often, their love of their craft fueling their days. Conventional things like dating, marriage, starting a family… it was secondary. 

“Secondary,” Kira had said with a quiet smile, “but I won’t say impossible.” 

She had always been more optimistic than him. Braver too. 

After hours of dancing, laughing, and a bit of crying, Kira had kissed Peter goodbye, her hands warm in his as she waited for the elevator. Peter had tucked some hair behind her ear, his thumb gentle on the swell of her cheek. She kept thanking him all night, for keeping in touch, for being such a great friend and mentor and… and…

_Thank you,_ Peter wanted to say in return, _you can’t imagine how much you helped me._

Instead tears welled up in his eyes and he hugged her tight, shuddering when she tightened her grip on him. 

_“I’m going to miss you,_ Kira.” He laughed, thick and ugly. _“I’ll still see you, of course I’ll still you see but it…”_

It wouldn’t be the same. It wouldn’t be seeing Kira nearly every day, it wouldn’t be hearing her voice from across the stage, directing every cameraman into place, or feeling her hand on his shoulder as she walked by during lunch breaks. He’d been spoiled, every day a comfort knowing that she was there. With Kira at the controls, everything would run smoothly. But the show had wrapped, and Peter’s next project was starting in a few days. 

_Stop being immature,_ he chided himself as Kira pulled back, the elevator doors opening. _Keep moving forward._

_“I’m going to miss you too,”_ Kira’s smile was bright even as tears dragged mascara down her cheeks, _“so fucking much, Peter.”_ She squeezed his hands. _“Don’t forget, you deserve to be happy too, okay?”_

Beside him, Stiles snored softly. 

Over the years, Peter found it difficult to sleep without Stiles beside him, a comforting weight and rhythm that felt _right._ Whether they collapsed into bed together with exhaustion or lingered, kisses separating meandering conversations… Stiles felt natural beside Peter. 

Peter swallowed the agonizing affection that had growing in his chest for years. He rolled over, pressing an open-mouth kiss to Stiles’s shoulder, gently moving so he could move his lips over his neck, down his collarbone, and slowly moving down his chest. Stiles’s breath hitched when Peter rubbed his stubble on his stomach. 

“Peter?” His accent came through in thick, sluggish bursts, a lazy drawl that made Peter’s cock throb. “What time is it?” 

He jumped, a light squeak escaping his lips when Peter gently bit Stiles’s hip. 

“Don’t know.” 

Stiles huffed a laugh, Peter delighting in how it made his stomach move, his skin smooth and tender under his lips and teeth.

“M’so tired.” Peter went to pull back, but then Stiles spread his legs, a pink flush spreading down his face to his neck. “I wanna feel you inside me, but I’m going to be real lazy about it.” 

Affection and lust squeeze around Peter’s heart and cock like a vice. Peter hid his face in Stiles’s hip though he was sure the young man could feel every tremor in Peter’s body, how his breathing picked up and how his cock pressed against Stiles’s thigh. 

Peter went slow, slower than he ever allowed himself to. He let his tongue lazily lick up Stiles’s inner knee, biting lightly up his thighs until Stiles’s skin was red. Lube spilled over Peter’s fingers as he swirled his tongue around Stiles’s cock, lazily kissing up its side, pressing his tongue against the slit, in no particular rush even as Stiles writhed and whined beneath him. 

It was easy to slide his index finger inside of Stiles, the young man taking it with a dreamy sigh. Peter hummed in the back of his throat, purring when Stiles’s fingers wove through his hair, pulling him closer. When he came, his cock pulsing against Peter’s tongue, it was quiet, slower than usual, a lazy roll of Stiles’s hips and a whispered, _“Peter, this is so nice,”_ his only warning. 

He slipped in a second finger as Stiles trembled through the aftershocks, his chest flushed and his nipples pebbled and pink. The sight made Peter’s mouth water, and as he worked his fingers gently into Stiles, he gave into temptation and rolled his tongue over Stiles’s nipples. 

“Mm.” Peter’s hips jumped and Stiles was half-hard already, his eyes bright as he arched his back, a slight plea that Peter was happy to oblige. “Peter,” and Peter moved to his other nipple, thumbing over his work as he gently pressed his teeth against it. Stiles whined, loud and drawn out. _“Peter,”_ fingers dug into his shoulder, “up, get up here.” 

Stiles pulled him into a kiss, the slide of his tongue sending delightful sparks down Peter’s spine. He pushed in another finger and Stiles rolled his hips, biting and nipping Peter’s lower lip. 

“Stiles, I—” The words stuck in his throat, the sight of Stiles’s brown eyes shimmering in the dark, his skin pale and on display, _all for Peter,_ made any words numb and tickle his tongue. “Stiles, I— you—” 

“I know,” Stiles smiled, grinding down onto Peter’s fingers, his cock bouncing in time to his breaths. “I know, Peter. C’mon. _Please.”_

Peter’s breath shuddered in his lungs when he finally, _finally,_ slid inside him. His hips snapped forward and Stiles smiled like he was in a dream. Peter found that spot easily, the one that made Stiles’s body jerk, the muscles in his thighs jumping and his voice keening, getting higher and higher, affectionate words spilling from his lips until Stiles came, painting his pleasure across Peter’s chest. 

Peter’s legs shook and it was only when Stiles’s fingers brushed the back of his neck, a soft, _“Peter,”_ falling from his lips, that Peter let himself fall off the edge. 

The next time Peter came to, it was Stiles kissing him roughly on his cheek. 

“Get up.” It was bright out and Peter groaned as Stiles slapped his hand over Peter’s stomach, where his come had dried. “I’m making omelettes. And coffee,” his teeth skimmed over Peter’s shoulder. “Come downstairs.” 

Peter stumbled down the stairs a few minutes later, in sweatpants and an open robe. The smell of sizzling butter filled his kitchen and a cup of black coffee was steaming on the counter, waiting for him. 

He was leaving for New York on Monday for a four month Broadway production. Later that night he was going to start packing. 

Stiles slid onto the stool next to him, his shoulder bumping Peter’s. 

_You’re allowed to be happy._

And he was. He really was. 

::::

Stiles’s leg bounced, the grey June gloom of Los Angeles a nice change from the constant summer sun. Stiles kept his sunglasses on, counting his breaths as he leaned back in the chair, forcing himself to look relaxed. 

He sat outside of the Lyric Hyperion. It was a Wednesday so it wasn’t as crowded as it was on the weekend, just the usual Silverlake hipsters hung around. Stiles nodded to a few of them, a few familiar faces that would go to the comedy shows that they hosted at night. 

Brunch by day, laughs by night. It was Stiles’s kind of place.

He only had to wait fifteen minutes before an older woman hurried in from the Lyric Avenue entrance. She was just as his agent Allion had described, a short woman with grey hair with colorful bursts of teal that wove between curls. She had on a green flax sweater and her glasses were wide, coke-bottle shape with purple metal frames. Her eyes found him instantly and her smile was soft, not practiced at all. 

Stiles relaxed as she jogged over, pulling the other chair out so she could sit with him. 

“Good morning, Stiles.” He shook her hand, pulling his sunglasses off as she sat down. “I’m Vivianne Estrich.” 

“Nice to meet you,” Stiles liked how her perfume was herbal, almost masculine. “I’m, well. I’m Stiles.” He ducked his head, sheepish. All the interviews he’d ever been a part of were promotional and in a group, he’d never done one solo before. And… this was personal, not marketing. “Thanks for taking the time.” 

Vivianne waved her hand, brushing aside Stiles’s gratitude like they were old friends. 

“Please. When Allison Argent calls, I answer.” 

She took out a gold spiral notepad, a ballpoint pen, and her cell phone where she activated a voice recording app. 

When Stiles had come out to Allison and asked how he’d go about coming out publically, the first and only name she’d said was _Vivianne Estrich._ She was a journalist for Vanity Fair, well respected, and was easy to talk to. _“There’s just something about her,”_ Allison smiled as she handed Stiles a box of tissues. _“Talking to her feels like… like you’re on a porch back home, you know?”_

He was starting to understand what she meant. 

Stiles took a sip of the lemonade that was slowly gathering condensation on the glass. 

“I, uh,” he couldn’t help but look at the little red light from her phone. “I don’t know how this is usually done.” 

Stiles hated how his shoulders bunched up around his ears. His father knew, and that had been the most terrifying night, full of anxiety and a glimmer of hope… that opened up like a flower when his dad had smiled. Accepted him with an _“Of course I still love you, Stiles, get over here, no more cryin’.”_ They both cried, just a little, but the good kind of tears. 

Vivianne swirled a tiny spiral in the corner of her notebook. 

“Allison said that this personal piece needed the right voice to deliver it, and she believed that I was the best fit.” She smiled and Stiles was able to smile back, his shoulders losing their tension just a bit. “I don’t make any assumptions.” 

Peter had three and a half months left in New York before he would be back home. They talked every night, until Peter fell asleep, usually mid-sentence. 

Before he’d left his home in the middle of the night… Stiles never thought he’d have this. He never thought he’d make it past twenty. He worried about his dad, what he’d think when Stiles would inevitably turn up dead somewhere, whether or not people would talk about Stiles the same way at the funeral, all snide gossip and ugly aggression. Would their resentment move on to his father? 

When he left it was like he could breathe for the first time in his life. 

The common complaint about Los Angeles was that it was vain and apathetic. Stiles could understand why folks felt that way, but to him…

It was a place where he was free to be whoever he wanted. It was never about following trends, it was never about being _current._ Los Angeles was a game to see who would be _ahead_ of whatever was going to come next. Sure, the nineties were back in style, but in Los Angeles you could wear a garbage bag and as long as you walked with confidence, in a few days you’d notice others following suit. 

The possibilities were endless. 

His father had seen it, during the first visit and the rest of his time out to California. _You look good,_ his dad always said when he landed at LAX, _you look rested._

Back in Alabama, he’d have to run to his car from the grocery store, hoping to outrun anyone who’d chase him. He’d only sing when he was in the car, and even then he’d do it quietly just in case someone walked by. He only danced in his room, when his door was locked and his father wasn’t home. He read all the books that drew his attention in the library, never risking checking them out. 

Stiles made friends all on his own. He had places that were his regular spots. He’d run into people at the grocery store, friends he knew, and he’d hug them. When he danced and sang, it was in front of cameras or in a studio for practice. Moving to California let him _smile_ again. 

_This is just the last step,_ Stiles thought as he drew in a long breath, _because I’m doing this for myself._

Folks dressed up like Rangsey for Pride month. Kids copied the choreography that Finstock and him had perfected on television. He got letters, emails, and tweets talking about how he made them feel safe. He gave them courage to express themselves… and Stiles realized it wasn’t _just_ about him anymore. 

“I’m gay.” Stiles exhaled in a rush. “God, it feels so good to say that out loud.” 

He breathed in deep, his grin wide, and Vivianne smiled back at him, her pen hitting the paper as Stiles started from the beginning. 

::::

“I know Josh is always down to tour with me, what about Cooperman? I really liked her, the way she contorts her body over her keyboard and just… screams, it’s unreal.” Finstock sat in baggage claim at LAX, worrying a hole in the sleeve of his hoodie, his sunglasses slipping down his nose as he quadruple checked the arrival times. “Rackleff said he’s in. I know he’s more meta, but I think more folks should see stuff like it—”

_“I know, I know.”_ Lydia shuffled through some stuff on her desk, Finstock heard her knock over her glass paperweight. _“Fucking paperweight. I should have just used a brick.”_

Lydia had been dying to get Finstock on a tour and now that the show was over, Finstock’s calendar was open for business. Within a few hours, Lydia had gotten together a spreadsheet of cities to hit. 

He was sure that other comedians would have been more on top of it, would have had everything mapped out the moment season three began, not only starting when it _ended._ He didn’t regret waiting, even if it meant most of his days were spent refreshing his inbox, taking calls for last-minute bookings. His heart beat faster as time went by, as the tour became more tangible. It was going to be _weird_ and it was going to be _fun._

_“So,”_ Lydia’s voice rang in his earbuds, _“how’s it going with Kira?”_

Funny, it had only been a week and Finstock knew that the information should have settled in as a fact, but he still felt fucking _butterflies_ flutter between his ribs. His lips pulled back into a bashful smile and he leaned back in his chair, feeling lightheaded. 

“It’s been crazy this week, her and Danny are in and out of production meetings for whatever they’re going to do next, but, uh,” he wondered if his affection for her was even more obvious. People probably only had to take one look at him to know, _yeah, someone has sent him up into the clouds._ “We’re going on a date this weekend.” 

He still felt her lips against his, both of them lingering outside of the Perch at two in the morning. He waited with her for an Uber and it was just like a day after production and at the same time it was completely different. They were breathless, ears ringing from the loud music, and they shivered as their sweat cooled in the night air. However… after the party, it was the little differences that made Finstock blush. 

Her fingers tangling with his, the taste of her shy yet delighted smile, and the small sound of loss she made when Finstock kissed her goodbye. It was a breathless whimper that haunted him all the way home. 

_“I can hear you getting all gross and gooey,”_ Lydia gagged for a half second before laughing. _“I’m happy for you, Bobby.”_

“Thanks, Lydia.” He saw familiar faces coming down the escalator. “Gotta go.” 

He stood up, pushing his sunglasses up so they could get tangled in his hair, walking towards them. There was something great about watching a person’s face go from exhausted to exhilarated in a matter of seconds. 

“Uncle Bobby!” 

He barely had to duck down to catch Shelbie. He held her up easily, kissing her cheek as he went to grab for a more subdued but still grinning Stuart. 

“God,” he kissed Stuart’s temple, his arm around Shelbie’s shoulders. “You two are getting _tall.”_ Ozzie and Patricia lingered a few feet behind their kids, squinting at the bright sun. Their hugs were stiff, unsure of where to put their arms and Ozzie let them just hang like wet noodles. “Let’s get your bags and get going.” 

It took twenty phone calls to get them out there. 

Twenty calls to convince Oswald that _yes,_ Finstock was paying and _no,_ it wasn’t a way of Finstock bragging and _I won’t be able to make it for Christmas or Thanksgiving so this is my present to you guys, I miss Shelbie and Stuart, come on—_ until Oswald finally gave him the go-ahead to buy the tickets. 

After the wrap party for _The Last Trolley Stop_ had ended, after kissing Kira goodnight, and after getting home to a new email from Lydia about her plans for a comedy tour… Finstock realized that he was going to be even _busier_ than usual. _Busy_ used to mean running from dive to dive, testing out material at open-mics, and maybe scoring a paid gig where he’d get eight minutes on the mic. _Busy_ became shooting schedules and regular appearances in smaller clubs all around Los Angeles where he could get up to twenty minutes of time on the mic. 

_Busy_ was growing into something different and Finstock was as thrilled as he was scared. Cancelling a gig at a dive had been no big deal, but now there were contracts, opening acts, and _tapings_ to consider. _Netflix wants to know if you want your special taped in Oklahoma City as a shout-out to your hometown, or if you wanted to do something local to Los Angeles,_ was Lydia’s latest email. 

When the first season of _The Last Trolley Stop_ had aired, Finstock knew that everyone’s trajectory was going to change, but he never gave himself that thought. He never let himself think that he’d be strapped to the same vehicle, that instead of watching his new friends grow and soar to new heights, that they’d be doing it _together._

Finstock set up his brother and family at a nice Airbnb near Larchmont. As soon as they dumped their things at the house, Finstock took them out for lunch just a few blocks down the street. 

Shelbie and Stuart were torn between peppering Finstock with questions and gaping at the palm trees, niche shops, and the endless amounts of dogs that walked by. He took his time in Larchmont and didn’t head over to Santa Monica until late afternoon.

Finstock went to the Santa Monica Pier twice when he first moved to Los Angeles, and then hadn’t been back since. It was a tourist trap, the crowds and prices were insane, and there were plenty of smaller beaches tucked along down the PCH that were quieter and nicer. 

Still, going back and hearing Shelbie and Stuart gasp, their hands tightening around Finstock’s as they saw the ferris wheel, was worth parking, gas, and a few doubletakes at Finstock’s face. 

Pink and yellow lights lit up his niece and nephew’s eyes as they took off running. Finstock smiled, and did his best not to worry about how Patricia and Oswald had barely said ten words since landing. 

Ocean air blew his hair back when he got onto the ferris wheel with Shelbie and Stuart, Ozzie and Patricia remaining on the boardwalk. 

“This is _the coolest,”_ Stuart shrieked, leaning over the side to get a better view of the seals that lazed on buoys. 

Shelbie gripped Finstock’s hand tight, her little knuckles white as they climbed higher and higher. She took a few pictures of the sunset and when she stepped off she let out a long sigh. 

“Good news, I saw the Pacific Ocean. Bad news, I found out I was afraid of heights.” 

Finstock laughed until he cried and was rewarded with a hug and a, “you’re so weird, Uncle Bobby.” 

The crowds died out around ten, when the sunset had bleed into an inky black sky. Within four minutes of getting into the car, Stuart and Shelbie were passed out in the back. Patricia took another five before she leaned against her son, her eyes slipping shut. 

Oswald remained awake in the passenger’s seat as Finstock drove east. 

“I can see that this,” Oswald gestured lazily with his hand, a sweep of Los Angeles as a whole, “has been good for you.” He crossed his arms, frowning in a way showed his age. “I was worried for a while.”

When Finstock had been younger, he never believed his brother. Just hearing the words _I’m worried about you_ made him livid. His parents used those words insincerely. _Worry_ really meant _disappointed._ Once he started drinking too much, he unfairly lumped his brother in with his parents. Anchored by tradition and backwater prejudice. 

“Yeah well,” Finstock shrugged, his throat tight. “It’s easier to be myself out here.” 

Ozzie snorted. 

“I can tell.” 

It was a long ride back to Larchmont, the ocean breeze lingered in the car as Finstock smiled. 

::::

A chilly breeze did nothing to ease the prickling nerves that made Kira’s cheeks hot. 

Five straight days of meetings with studio executives was nothing compared to the last two hours. She had pitched three different scripts with Danny and they’d been met with warmth, silence, and sometimes chilling apathy. The end of each day was spent on Danny’s floor, wrung out with a a cup of tea in her trembling hands. 

Next week they’d narrow down possibilities and financiers. Then they’d discuss location scouting. From then on, casting, production design, costuming, schedules, revisions, and shooting. 

The promise of tomorrow and all the wondrous chaos it would bring was exhilarating. 

_“I don’t understand, you’ve been in meetings with studio sharks all day, and this is the most nervous you’ve been all week? It’s just a date, Kira.”_

Peter snarked at her from over three thousand miles away, managing to make her smile and groan. Kira rolled her eyes, smoothing out her skirt for the thirty-seventh time in the last fifteen minutes. 

“I can pitch with Danny in my sleep. This is,” she swallowed, her throat tight as she wrung her hands, her phone resting on her leg, her earbuds plugged in. “This is different.” 

If this had just been another meet-up with someone from Tinder of OKCupid, the nervousness would be from the _potential_ of the other person. Would they be funny enough? Interesting enough? Understanding of her insane schedule and worth ethic? It was the last one that drove most people away, not that Kira was ever inclined to chase. 

Peter had once described her as utilitarian about dating when she’d leaned on his shoulder after a night at a bar and said, _“I didn’t move out here to fuck, I could stay back home for that. I have two hands with fingers that work just fine.”_ Peter had choked on his drink and the bartender was relieved he didn’t have to perform the Heimlich. 

She still stood by that sentiment. She was in Los Angeles to work. Ignoring sporadic messages from Tinder was easy. 

Ignoring Bobby Finstock was impossible.

_“Yeah, I know.”_ Peter sighed, she could hear his bed creak as he turned over. It was well past midnight on the east coast and he still picked up the phone when Kira called. _“If it helps, he’s just as nervous as you are.”_

Kira snorted, the ball of anxiety in her chest expanding. 

“S-Sure.” 

Ever since the wrap party, only a week ago, she hadn’t stopped thinking about how his hands had been so steady in hers, how his crooked grin had tasted when she kissed him. How he held her close, how he smiled at her like he always did after a long day, and yet somehow it was brand new. 

She also thought about the feeling of his tongue catching on hers, and his teeth gently tugging her lower lip, right before he gave her a gentler kiss tonight. 

Kira thought about _that_ a lot. 

_“Can you keep a secret?”_

Peter drawled, long and with a curl of his lips that Kira missed seeing in person. 

“Of course.” 

_“Finstock is three blocks away, and I know this because, like you, he’s on the phone with a good friend.”_ Before Kira could stutter out a response, Peter continued, _“Stiles has been texting me, incredulous that this is the first time he’s heard Finstock be so nervous about anything.”_ Peter laughed and Kira couldn’t help but smile with him. _“I’m hanging up, he’ll be there soon. Have a wonderful first date, Kira.”_

The wind blew through Little Tokyo and Kira tugged her earbuds out.

An uncharastic hush fell over the street, the same kind of hush that she’d savor with Bobby when shoots went long, when they were out to dinner with friends and their eyes met across the table, or when…

Bobby came out from a side street, his cheeks pink. He looked good, but then again… he _always_ looked good. Light from the restaurant sent streaks of neon blue across Kira’s skin. Their eyes met and his teeth dug into his lip before he grinned, bright and beautiful. 

Los Angeles moved around them, twinkling and indifferent. 

Pages turned, a whisper of paper and a promise that this was _just the beginning._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well there it is. I know I said I had two chapters left, but the final one I’d originally outlined is better as a coda, so there’s that to look forward to. I feel like this was a nice place to end, where it doesn’t end with the series finale, but a glimpse of what’s waiting for our friends. I hope you guys enjoyed this. It was really fun to write, and I got to just show affection for the city I live in. I know this was a risky story to read, especially with a rarepair like Bobby/Kira as a co-lead. 
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> I made [**a whole post on my tumblr**](http://mia6363.tumblr.com/post/178563259812/the-last-trolley-stop-the-finale) about the series, the inspirations, comedian cameos, and just general stuff. 
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> Come say hi to me on [**tumblr**](http://mia6363.tumblr.com/), and if you want to know how to support me, [**check out this post!**](http://mia6363.tumblr.com/post/180674529547/patreon-ko-fi-post)
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> And I’d like to say thanks again. It’s been really fun writing this and I hope you guys enjoyed it. There WILL be codas. Award shows. A couple weddings. You know. Life in bits and pieces. 
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> Stay bright and colorful! 
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> <3 Mia. 


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